Tales from a Wooden Time Machine
by Randomcat1832
Summary: A collection of oneshots. When you're travelling with the Doctor, he gives you all of time and space. There are planets to see, aliens to defeat. But what counts most of all is what happens at home. And anything can happen when home is a wooden spaceship/time machine that's bigger on the inside.
1. A Portrait in Pink, Blue, and Yellow

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**Tales from a Wooden Time Machine**

Author's Intro: Welcome, reader, and thanks for giving this story a look. Here I'll brief you on what you can all expect to find while reading. This story will go in linear progression of Doctors and companions: this chapter features Nine and Rose, the next will be about Ten and Rose, then Ten and Martha, etc. When I reach the end of the line of new characters I'll go right back to the beginning again. I have no idea how many stories I'll write, but I'll stop when I start running out of good ideas and want to go on with new stories. And of course, these oneshots will be open to requests and prompts, but there are a few rules I'll be going by:  
>- I want to make my stories canon-friendly, so there will be no AU romantic relationships. (For instance, no romantic TenDonna stories). I _will_ happily consider prompts for canonical ships, though.  
>- I won't be writing stories that are purely silly, or crackfics, because it's just not my thing, really. But some stories will definitely be lighter than others, and I'm happy to write fluff. Nor will I write pure smut, but I definitely have no qualms in kissing or maybe even a sexual joke or two.<br>And that's about it. (Boy, was that a long intro). I hope you all enjoy, and again, remember to leave any ideas you may have in the reviews, or send me a PM. I don't promise to write for everything, but I promise to consider all your ideas. _Allons-y_!

For my own reference: 8th fanfiction, 2nd story for _Doctor Who_.

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Story One | A Portrait in Pink, Blue, and Yellow

Summary: Post "Father's Day." In a rare melancholy moment, the Doctor and Rose reminisce on what they've lost. [Nine/Rose].

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Rose all but collapsed into the jump chair the moment she stepped back into the TARDIS, feeling more worn down, suddenly. Inexplicably exhausted. She swallowed hard and craned her neck up to the time rotor, basking in its soothing blue-green light. The nineteen-year-old drew her knees to her chest, rested her chin there. She felt the prickling threat of tears in her eyes, and she hastily swiped at them with the back of her hand, brushed a stray lock of blonde hair from her face that had slipped loose of its ponytail.

She hardly noticed when the TARDIS doors closed a minute later as the Doctor came in. His steps were brisk, as they always were, but his voice was sympathetic. "You okay?" He eyed her from across the console where he'd parked himself.

"Yeah," she muttered, allowing a smile to ghost across her face. A beat. "Yeah, 'm fine." Rose was unsure of how to further elaborate, so she let silence fall back into place, and the room was soon swollen with it.

"You _sure_ you're okay?" His voice, shattering the quiet, startled her and snapped Rose from her reverie. She blinked, then nodded and climbed down from the jump chair, hugging the denim of her jumper closer.

"Mmhm. Just gonna get some rest," she replied in what she hoped was a casual tone as she crossed the room, and when he nodded, Rose turned and trotted down the steps to the corridor where her bedroom was, all the while feeling his gaze following her. She opened the door, closed it behind her, and flopped backwards onto her bed with a heavy sigh.

Again, she felt the oncoming threat of tears as a burning prickle in her eyes, but now she let them flow, let them slide quietly down her cheeks in streams of mascara and salty wetness. A montage of the day's events flashed through her mind, and she let herself cry. It wasn't that she kept her emotions bottled up inside all the time, but for some reason, she didn't want to cry in front of the Doctor. Silly, she knew.

She recovered from her tears after a little bit. Five minutes, ten. Rose sat up, wiping away the trains of mascara from her cheeks with the box of tissues that had suddenly appeared on her bedside table. She'd also been left a glass of ice water, which she gulped down gratefully. The water tasted good, and it trickled down her throat with refreshing cold, the cubes tinkling inside. Both the tissues and the water had been left there by the TARDIS, no doubt — sometimes the ship did things like that, and Rose got more and more of an impression that it wasn't just any old bigger-on-the-inside wooden time machine spaceship; it was a sentient being, _alive_ somehow.

Rose turned to the mirror on the wall and studied her reflection. Her eyes were a little bloodshot, but otherwise, there was no evidence she'd just been crying. She rubbed at her face tiredly, loosened her hair from its ponytail and let it fall loose about her shoulders. Releasing her hair felt like a liberation of sorts. Some kind of unknown, inexplicable burden lifted. She ran her hands over her face one more time, removed her earrings, popped an ice cube into her mouth. Broke it between her teeth with a tiny _crunch_ and let it melt on her tongue. With a toss of her hair, she left her chambers and went back for the console room, where she knew she'd find the Doctor. He always seemed to be there, no matter what, and Rose sometimes wondered how much time he actually spent in his own bedroom.

And sure enough, he _was_ there, bent over the console and fiddling with the buttons. Rose crossed her arms over her chest as she leaned against the railing and watched him for a moment with a teasing smile. He didn't even take notice of her, so Rose stayed where she was and took in the sight of him. He was so totally preoccupied, as he always was. Or was he? The longer she watched him, the more she realised he wasn't completely focused on his work; his motions seemed … absent-minded. Like he needed something to focus on and turned to this. And, bathed in that blue-green light, his hard, angular form seemed a little hunched over, smaller. The angles of his body were like broken pieces glued back together in a rush. She'd never seen him like that before, not even after Utah and Van Staten and the Dalek.

_And I'm left travellin' on my own cos there's no one else left._

Glued back together in a rush and glossed over with wild energy, manic grins, biting sarcasm. An ideal façade.

Rose didn't remember when Dad died, of course. She'd been seven months old. But she did remember being a little older — five, six years old — and seeing Mum looking over pictures of him and crying, and Rose hadn't know what to do, so she'd just come over and hugged her. Mum had always replied by hugging back, and it would be enough to make Rose want to cry too. _Look at me, crying like that. Don't you go crying, too, Rose. Come on, love, why don't I put on some tea?_ Mum, whose solution to literally everything and anything was tea, would always say something like that when she noticed her daughter's lower lip trembling, and she'd get up off the musty old sofa and brew her pain away.

Yes, Rose knew broken all too well and she knew what it meant. Especially after today's events.

_Oh, Rose. They're all dead._

She went on watching the Doctor for what could have been another minute or two before she found the silence unbearable, and filled it back up again. "Doctor."

The Time Lord jumped, looked up and his lips quirked into a grin. He returned her name. "Rose."

She raised her chin playfully and tried to seem nonchalant. "What ya up to?"

He removed the sonic screwdriver from his pocket and waved it in the air. "Just a bit o' jiggery-pokery. Have you been studying for your hullabaloo?"

Rose giggled despite herself and circled the console to stand next to him. "Nah. Too busy saving the world. The worlds. All the worlds." Another giggle, and this time he laughed too. She paused, then asked, "Are _you_ alright, though?"

He scoffed and turned away. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be? … It's you I'm worried about. After all, you just went back and saw your father die."

_My whole planet died. My entire family. D'you think it's never occurred to me to go back and save them?_

Rose's gaze wandered down to his hands, gripping the console a little too tightly; his knuckles were half-white. His jaw was tightly clenched, and he wasn't looking at her; his steely blue-eyed gaze was fixed on some unknown point before him. She blurted out the next words. "It's just, you said ... that your … family died, back in my Dad's flat. I didn't know you had a family. And I wanted to tell you, I'm so sorry." Those eyes, too old for the rest of him, flicked her way, but he remained silent. Rose faltered, then added, "I can't even think … " She trailed off, unable to find the right words to continue. Because what words could she use? What words could _anyone_ use to express something like that?

The Doctor didn't answer right away, not that she'd expected him to. "Yes. I had kids. Grandchildren, even." There was another long pause before he continued on gruffly, probably more so than he'd intended: "But it doesn't matter now. It's in the past. Nothing I can do to change that." He pushed back from the console and lifted himself up to perch on the railing, staring blankly ahead again. The Doctor took to brooding, as was his wont, and Rose found herself playing with the cuffs of her jumper. She did wonder about those kids he'd lost, but she would never be so awful as to ask him. Instead, she just watched him, her Time Lord bathed in blue light and leather.

And the Doctor watched her, his pink and yellow human. He watched as she absentmindedly played with the sleeve of her jumper, tongue peeking out from between her teeth, her hazel eyes downcast. She seemed to be deep in thought, maybe thinking about her dad. Probably. After all, she'd just gone back to see the day her father had died, seen him nearly struck by a car, saved his life, only to have the universe nearly consumed by Reapers and seen him die all over again.

It was a lot for her to take in. All that damage that she'd nearly done, and only because she'd tried to fix one thing in her previous life, her normal East London, beans-on-toast life. He figured it must have been a bit of a rubbish one, but then, the Doctor had never done domestic, and _she_ was probably used to it. He knew she didn't want to go back to that old life of the Powell Estate, of course, didn't want to go back to her beans on toast and chips, and bugger all if he let her go any time soon. But just the one tiny thing she'd tried to put right had gone so very wrong. God knew what must be going through her mind. Further inspection showed her eyes to be slightly bloodshot; she'd been crying.

He didn't call her out on it. She deserved her privacy, of course she did. He was well aware that she'd given him his. He didn't expect her to finally further elaborate, but she did, after a while. She spoke in a quiet tone, and her gaze was still downcast, but she said the words all the same.

"I remember … when I was a kid, and Mum first told me how my dad had died. I'd never known him proper, 'course I didn't, but I remember her tellin' me, and I cried. She put the photo album away, and she made me hot chocolate with marshmallows — not tea like she usually would — and I felt better. I was seven when she told me." She gave a small chuckle, and finally looked up to meet the Doctor's gaze.

"No nut loaf? Not beans on toast?" the Doctor asked wryly. She looked at him indignantly and swatted his arm, but she was laughing, and what could he do but smile back at her and laugh too? And then, all of a sudden, her head was resting against one of his broad shoulders, her nose buried in the leather of his jumper, and her laughs had died down. What funny little things humans could be! Laughing and joking one moment, then all quiet and melancholy the next. If there was one thing he couldn't ever get his head round, it was the humans and the way their minds worked. So he did what he hoped was the best approach: he put an arm round her, and held his pink and yellow human close, and she didn't pull away. In fact, she snuggled in closer still.

In the past, the Doctor would have felt that this was crossing some kind of boundary into awkwardness, but that wasn't the case now, with Rose. In fact, it felt _right_, somehow, and they stayed that way for a long time, with just the TARDIS humming affectionately in the background.

It was Rose who finally pulled away, but gently and slowly, easing herself from him, and the Doctor let her go. A thought came to him suddenly and he snorted. "Mickey the Idiot, though … "

She furrowed her brow and frowned, seemingly confused. "Hey?" Then she remembered, and her eyes widened. "Oh! Mickey, right." When he began to laugh, she reached over swatted him playfully over the head. "Oi! He's my _boyfriend_."

"Boyfriend? What happened to Adam?" asked the Doctor sardonically, knowing full well what Rose's opinion on him was. Frankly, he was half glad that kid had gone and done what he did. Adam Mitchell would never have lasted long. Bit of a wanker, too, that one.

Rose snorted. "Oh, me and Adam were never … anyway, he _betrayed_ us, in case ya forgot. He … I mean, Mickey and me were together for a long time before you came along. He was my best friend when I was a kid, too, even though he was four years older." Her eyes wandered over to the time rotor as she stood a little straighter and suddenly changed the subject. "So. We're gonna keep on goin', yeah? With the travelling?"

"Why wouldn't we?"

Rose shrugged, then her eyes lit up. "Oh! — could we go and see New York or something, Doctor? In the '20's? With, y'know, the speakeasies and them showgirls … "

"The Ziegfeld girls," he informed her with a laugh, already moving to punch the coordinates in. And she repeated it with a giggle, and they were off, ready to run again as the TARDIS went flying off through the vortex to 1920's New York with the grinding of her time rotor. Rose dashed off to the TARDIS wardrobes to find some appropriate period clothing, and emerged a little later in full flapper fashion.

Running. Running, running, one hell of a lot of running. Catch me if you can.

Maybe that was how they survived, then, the little humans. It wasn't much different than what the Doctor himself tried to do. Run from the hurt and forget it for little flashes of time. Either way, he wasn't quite so alone anymore, and he had someone to share the danger with now. That was the best part.

Yes, bugger all if he let his pink and yellow human go anytime soon.


	2. Pure Imagination

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**Tales from a Wooden Time Machine**

This one is a combination of prompts from **supersexyghotmew95** and **MaryEvH**.

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><p>Story Two | Pure Imagination<p>

Summary: Post "New Earth." A new Doctor, a new TARDIS. Rose and Ten explore her new corridors. Some Nine nostalgia. [Ten/Rose].

oOo

Rose Tyler followed the Doctor into the TARDIS and closed the double doors behind her, shutting out the sounds of the party and distress outside. She leaned against the sturdy surface of the doors a moment, drummed her fingers against her knee, and sighed. Her hazel eyes darted up to see the Doctor — the _new_, _different_ Doctor — already darting around and playing with the countless buttons and levers on the console. Maybe he wasn't so different after all, because the Doctor she knew always went straight to his machine after their adventures. Typical bloke.

She took a moment to watch him quietly, still unused to him. Enough time had elapsed since her Doctor had regenerated into this one that she'd accepted the fact she couldn't get him back, not the Doctor she knew. Now she would have to keep on travelling with this one. He would have to do. So she sat back and just watched him, mapped out the mystery of him in her mind.

He looked younger for sure, closer to thirty than forty, as his last self had appeared. He was a little taller, and a lot skinnier, with a headful of scruffy brown hair and a bright, youthful sort of smile. This new Doctor's bonier face made his chocolate brown eyes look large, like puppy dog's eyes. She decided suddenly that she liked the quirky way he dressed: long tan trench coat, brown pinstripe suit, tie, and Converse trainers. With a sudden and swift motion he pulled his glasses from his inside pocket and put them on: it wasn't the first time Rose had seen him wear them and she was sure his eyesight was just fine. Probably, she reasoned with a smirk, he just wore them to look clever. Like he himself had said: new new Doctor.

_New new TARDIS?_ she wondered suddenly. He'd mentioned something before about the TARDIS regenerating along with him, but the console room was still the same. The metal grating on the floor, the whole room bathed in bluish green lighting from the time rotor. The corals still arced majestically up to the high ceiling and the walls were covered in the same roundels. A railing still went around the main part of the room, with a ramp leading up to it from the doors and stairs leading down, off to the infinite corridors within. And of course there remained the jump chair, which the Doctor now flopped backwards onto and rested his Converse-clad feet on the console. His puppy's eyes noted the way she hovered, uncertain, by the doors, and he knitted his brows in a frown.

"Rose?" he prompted. "You alright?"

She blinked and shook her head. "Yeah. Fine. It's jus' … a lot to take in, you know?" She gave him a small but rueful smile. "Like ya said. New new Doctor. It still takes some gettin' used to." Rose hesitated, then continued. "But … I get it. Sort of. You're still the Doctor, and like I said, I wanna keep on travelling."

He removed his feet from the console and climbed from the jump chair, arms crossed over his chest. He hesitated, then held his hand out to her. "C'mere. New Doctor, but still the same. And the fun for me is a new TARDIS." He wiggled his eyebrows, his fingers. Rose took his hand, but she furrowed her brow.

"You mentioned a new TARDIS before, but it still looks the same to me." She craned her neck, taking another look around the console room to see if there were any changes she hadn't spotted. There really were none. She turned back to the Doctor with a confused frown, but he inclined his head towards the little stairway leading to the corridors, and then she realised. "_Oh!_ Oh. It changes out there, does it? All the rooms." And, with that grin still on his face, he nodded his head eagerly, looking like a kid on Christmas morning. Rose giggled, happy to be childish with him. "Okay then, mister. Let's go exploring."

The Doctor gave Rose's arm a playful tug as he ran on ahead, causing her to be pulled behind him with a shriek of surprise before she laughed and let herself catch up with his long strides. They passed by her bedroom, its door ajar. Her room was still the same as it had been before. In the time that she'd been travelling with the previous Doctor, she'd taken care to decorate it to her own liking, until she made herself a comfortable atmosphere for her sleeping quarters. She'd modelled it somewhat after her own room back home. Pink shag carpet and fuchsia bedspread, and orchid coloured wallpaper. A white night-table, showcasing a few photographs of Mickey, her mum, and a picture the Doctor had taken of her and Jack in 18th century France, but mostly it was piled high with her favourite books. Some were from her future that she'd picked up from the TARDIS library — including the seventh _Harry Potter _book. But Rose had also taken care to add a few intergalactic quirks: on her desk she kept a small cutting of a rare jewel the Doctor had salvaged for her on one of their countless adventures, a gadget with a complicated name that played the song of her choice when she woke up in the morning, and in the corner, a small potted bonsai willow tree with neon leaves. As they passed her room and Rose poked her head in, she wondered whether the Doctor's own room had changed with the rest of him.

She also wondered what he'd done with his old clothes: the leather jumper, the black knit top, the jeans. She'd given them all back to him after the Christmas incident, but now had no idea what he'd done with them. Rose hoped he'd put them safely away somewhere: for some reason she couldn't bear the thought of him having thrown them out or gotten rid of them. Maybe there was some place in the TARDIS where he kept the belongings of his past bodies: he'd said so himself that the version of him she'd met had been far from his first.

So, as they wandered the corridors, Rose decided to voice her query. "Oi, Doctor," she started, and he paused to look at her, prompting her to go on when she hesitated with a jerk of his head. "What've you done with your … old clothes? You got 'em put away somewhere, or … ?" She trailed off, unsure how to fill the ellipsis. For some reason expected him to dismiss it — if she knew the Doctor, he didn't seem to want her to constantly compare him to his past self — but he seemed all too happy to answer her question.

"Oh, yes! Got a great big room full of clothes. A giant wardrobe! Blimey, it's like Narnia in there." He paused, then noted Rose's expression. "You wanna see it?"

Rose hesitated, but then she nodded. "Okay." The Doctor studied her a moment, then squeezed her hand and ran on ahead, pulling her along behind him, and she laughed all the way. After a sprint up two flights of stairs, a right turn, a long trip down a spiral ramp, and two lefts in quick succession of one another, they came to a metal sliding door which opened for them as they approached. Rose and the Doctor stepped through the doorway into what appeared at first glance to be an immense, if unglamorous, poorly lit room, but as soon as the door shut behind them, the lights came on and Rose's eyes widened. "Blimey."

The lighting was similar to that of the TARDIS console room, all blues and greens, the ceiling stretched sky-high, the walls were covered in those mysterious roundels, and, as appeared to be the case for most rooms in the ship, had a metal grating floor. But she was faced with rows upon rows of countless outfits from varying planets and historical periods. Not all of them were for men. Rose was impressed. This was like the TARDIS library but for clothes. She turned on the Doctor with a smirk. "You got all these clothes, but you hardly ever wear any of 'em. I only ever saw you in that one jumper, and now … well, this." She indicated his current outfit. "How come?"

"Oh, I'm picky about my clothes," was his ready response, accompanied by a wrinkle of the nose. "Besides, I reckon not all of them would fit me: they're suited to my past bodies. But … I do keep some of my old clothes in their own special closet." He led her through the room, slowly, letting Rose pause to admire the intergalactic outfits, including what appeared to be a spandex suit, and the image of the Doctor wearing it was so ridiculous she had to bite her tongue to keep from bursting out laughing.

Before long they came to a majestic looking metal wardrobe, etched in the language of the Doctor's people who were all burnt up now. Rose recognised it, she'd seen those markings before: on the console room monitors, in some of his books, all over the TARDIS. She wondered what these words, in their foreign language of elaborate circles, read, and came close to asking. But then she remembered the reaction she usually got when she brought up anything having to do with his planet, and she knew how much pain it caused him to reminisce, so she said nothing as the Doctor produced his sonic screwdriver and pointed it at the doors of the wardrobe. They opened.

There were nine outfits in all, hanging on coat hangers on full display. Instantly, she was drawn to the only clothes she'd ever seen him wear, and fingered the fabric between her fingers. The jumper still smelled of him, all leather and warmth and madness, and it took a moment before she was willing to let go. Next Rose scanned the other eight outfits. There was a Victorian-looking suit with a ruffled collar, a coat matched with a hat and a multi-coloured scarf longer than any human being was tall, what appeared to be a red-and-white cricket uniform with a celery stick on the lapel, and …

Rose couldn't help it. She cringed, then burst out laughing, before she finally fell properly silent as she took in the complete and utter vulgarity of the patchwork rainbow coat in front of her. Of all the things she'd imagined the Doctor wearing in the past, it certainly wasn't this. As she stared at the coat, the Doctor gave her a sullen look. "What's the matter?"

Hands on hips, Rose turned on him. "This _coat_," she replied. "When'd ya wear _this_ one?"

The Doctor huffed, shooing her backwards and closing the doors. "Long time ago, Rose." He pulled a face. "Well. Admittedly, it's not very attractive, is it? It looks a bit like a … rainbow, doesn't it? … I was going through a phase."

Rose looked at the closed wardrobe door, horrified expression still ghosting across her face. "Hurts my eyes." After a second or two passed, she added, "Right, then. No point standin' here mopin' about your _awful_ fashion sense. You said exploring. So, let's go exploring."

The Doctor chuckled. "Yes. Exploring, yes … _allons-y!_" Brandishing his sonic screwdriver dramatically, like a sword, he turned on his heel and raced off, leaving Rose to giggle before hurrying along behind him, grabbing his hand when she caught up to him. Hand-in-hand, Rose and the Doctor went on running, out the room and through the TARDIS' corridors. Travelling with the Doctor, Rose decided, was one hell of a workout.

They ran until they came to the next flight of stairs, leading up again this time, and stopped, gasping for breath and laughing together hysterically. "Enough running," Rose panted out through her giggles. She brushed a lock of blonde hair from her face. She'd recently switched brands of peroxide — some new thing Mum had introduced her to —and had gotten fond of this new, more realistic shade. Maybe it was like her own little change, her own little regeneration. "Let's walk now and explore normally, yeah?"

"Oh, but what'd be the fun in that?" The Doctor, who didn't tire easily, asked, but when he looked at Rose's irritated expression, he closed his mouth and nodded. "Okay. Let's _explore normally_."

And they did. Climbed four full flights of stairs and explored the corridors up there. The whole time, Rose couldn't help but notice the way the TARDIS hallways were all so similar. But in a ship that was its own universe, behind each of those doors was a little world. Rose was just twenty now (or so she figured, anyway) and could have spent her lifetime properly discovering just one floor of the TARDIS and then some. Had the Doctor even been inside every room? She doubted it. So they went cherry-picking, choosing doors at random and poking their heads through.

There was a room filled with every possible variety of clocks, from floating holographic ones with three-dimensional digits to a shelf full of watches to majestic grandfather clocks with freshly polished wood. All the clocks read different times, and as Rose peered in, fascinated, the grandfather clock suddenly released a mighty gong, causing her to jerk backwards and laugh along with the Doctor. They found an engine room, each getting a faceful of soot as soon as they opened the door, and the Doctor confessed he'd never set foot in that particular engine room, and since they were already dirty, they ventured inside and he rambled on at a mile a minute about the complex nature of how the time rotor reacted to the quadruple enzyme fabricator which got its energy from hydrochloric acid. Or something to that effect. Rose of course didn't understand a word of it but listened anyway because she liked hearing him talk. Always had. She decided she rather liked his new accent, too: no longer harsh Northern syllables but an easier Estuary English.

There was a room full of books just in his language, which the Doctor and Rose had both been in before but had relocated apparently. Once, Rose opened a door only to find it to be overflowing with letters in yellowed envelopes when a pile of them came falling on top of her and the Doctor. Completely buried, they popped their heads out of the pile, took one look at each other, and burst out laughing. There was a room that looked like the 1920's speakeasy he'd taken her to once, complete with an upbeat jazz tune easing out of an old Victrola in the corner. A garden occupied with all manner of plants both from Earth and extraterrestrial and even with a few insects to support its little ecosystem, a Victorian sitting room, an empty side corridor with stunning paintings hanging on the walls, another side corridor lined with shelves holding a vintage film collection.

And a colossal room with only a small mahogany lectern in the centre of it, and resting on that lectern was a thick, ornate leather-bound book. All of a sudden it seemed very lonely as Rose took the first step into the room. For some reason, it felt so cold in here, and she shivered, hugged herself tightly for warmth. She crossed the huge room, glancing over her shoulder once and expecting to see the Doctor just behind her, but he was lurking in the doorway, watching her silently from behind his new, old brown eyes. Rose came to the lectern and picked the book up. Her fingers brushed the rough surface of the cover, covered in that same writing of his people. In gold. The writing was faded, but still visible. She came close to opening it, but something stopped her. Perhaps it was the chilliness of this room, or the loneliness of it. Backing out, she dropped the book, like it burned her.

"Rose," the Doctor said quietly when the door shut automatically behind her. His hands were stuffed in his pockets. "Did you … "

"Didn't see what was in there, no," Rose murmured. "Reckon that's your own privacy." He regarded her a moment, then nodded, seemingly gratefully, and offered his hand, which she took, and they went on exploring. They continued stumbling upon all variety of contents in the rooms; most of the things Rose had only seen in her imagination, and more still beyond that. But her mind kept on flicking back to that book in the lonely room, and decided that there were some things she didn't want to imagine.

oOo

The Doctor didn't tire as easily as humans. His companions often got tired before he did, but they were always so excited that they never freely admitted it and went on until they were so completely worn out it usually landed them in some kind of elaborate trouble. That would leave him to have to learn their body language, to identify when they felt tired, and he would send them off for a cuppa and then rest.

Rose was no different than all the others before her, not telling him when she was tired, probably too excited to even realise when she was. So he had been forced to study her body language, and, just like all the others before her, he learned her. After well over three hours of exploration, and some running breaks in between, she was getting tired. Certainly their adventure on New Earth just before was enough to wear her out. He called her out on this, and when she opened her mouth to protest, he nudged her playfully. "Alright. Before you run along to bed, how 'bout some tea?"

"And some chips," Rose insisted, and he laughed because he knew how much she loved them — _such_ a Londoner — and he himself would never pass up on an offer. They wandered casually back to the TARDIS kitchen, where, after washing off the soot that still remained on their faces, he boiled some tea and she prepped some chips. They took seats opposite each other on the island counter, plates full of chips with vinegar and salt and steaming mugs in hand.

Rose smiled at him wordlessly for a heartbeat, but the Doctor didn't fail to notice the slightly reserved way with which she looked at him now, a slight hesitation and uncertainty in her hazel eyes. She saw him as her Doctor, yes, but she saw him as a _different_ Doctor. Not that he blamed her, because he had just gone and changed his face after absorbing the time vortex from her, and he hadn't bothered mentioning regeneration before. She was bound to feel conflicted.

_This is who I am now, Rose Tyler. Take me or leave me._

_Just don't leave me._

Her fingers were toying with the teaspoon, with it she lazily stirred the warm liquid in her cup. A lock of her blonde hair — a new shade of peroxide, he suddenly realised. It was rather nice, more of an ash blonde than it had been before — fell in her face, and she lifted one hand to brush it away impatiently. The Doctor, unsure as to why, suddenly felt an urge to tuck it behind her ear for her, but by the time he'd lifted his hand, she'd already done so. She looked back up at him and gave another grin, tongue slipping out between her slightly crooked teeth. Seeing his hand still hovering uncertainly in midair, she furrowed her brows and gave him an odd look. "Doctor? You okay?"

Awkwardly he dropped his hand, enclosed it around the handle of his teacup and shook his head. "Yep. Fine. Just … in a trance, I suppose."

She tipped her head back and laughed. "You're so weird." Then, resting her chin on her hand, she continued. "So, where do we go next? I was thinkin' the past, since we just came from the future."

"You're tired. You should rest."

Rose pulled a face. "Nah! I could never get tired of this."

And he chuckled, perhaps powerless to her excited charm. "Alright. Past it is. Have I taken you to Roman Britain yet? You should try the _garum_! … Well. After these chips. Been having a craving since my last … body." He glanced at her plate and teacup, both of which were now empty.

She cocked an eyebrow. "Mmhm. I see ya still like 'em just as much, don't ya?"

"'Course." He set down his teacup, which he'd picked up a moment before and had taken a sip from, and which now hovered in midair. Then he picked it up again, drained its contents. Popped one last chip into his mouth. Leapt to his feet. "So! Roman Britain! Are you ready, Rose Tyler?"

Climbing from the stool on which she sat, Rose giggled. "Always."

Ah, Rose Tyler. Always more than ready for their next adventure. Always ready to jump into anything and everything headfirst.

_Stay like that, Rose. And stay with me._


	3. Carry Me Home

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**Tales from a Wooden Time Machine**

Author's Note: This chapter is my own idea, and I know it's been done before but I wanted to contribute. If you have any ideas for a **non-romantic** Ten and Donna story, which I will be writing next, please leave them in your review. Thanks!  
>And this chapter's title comes from <em>We Are Young<em> by Fun. (Yes, it's not the first time I've used its lyrics in my stories but I love that song. It's actually one of the few modern songs I like).  
>Finally to guest reviewer <strong>Allons-yTenxRose<em>, <em>**my reply is in the reviews page.

Word Count: 4,297

oOo

Story Three | Carry Me Home

Summary: Set at some point between _42 _and _Human Nature_. The Doctor is sick, so he's lucky to have Martha onboard. Unfortunately, it turns out doctors make rubbish patients. Pure fluff.

oOo

Dr Martha Jones. That had always been her sister Tish's nickname for her as far back as Martha could remember, well before, even, Martha had started medical school. When Martha had been little, she'd always giggled at that, and when finally did start at medical school, she would give a little smile and say lightly, "Well, not yet." Because Martha _had_ wanted to be a doctor ever since she was a very young girl. It had been her sole dream and ambition, and she'd stuck by it. She could remember being ten and curling up by the window seat with the encyclopaedia open to the "Human Body" chapter on her lap, while the other kids in the neighbourhood played football outside. When she was older Martha sometimes cancelled meetings with her mates to study. She'd been devout and single-minded, and had had a promising career ahead of her.

Another Doctor in a pinstripe suit with tousled brown hair and his brilliant blue box had changed all that. Martha had lost count of the days; time travel did that to you. She'd been almost twenty-three when she ran off with him, and she wondered if she'd turned that age yet. Maybe. But she'd since stopped caring about whether she was twenty-two or twenty-three, stopped caring if it was Tuesday or Wednesday. Life with the Doctor and his TARDIS all of time and space changed that, because she'd seen things that were so much more brilliant. The things he'd shown and taught her ...

Now, they toppled into the TARDIS, sopping wet from a "dip" in the Arctic Ocean, 2015, and shaking with laughter. The Doctor kicked the doors shut behind him and dashed up to the console, pulling a lever and pressing a button and the time rotors began to grind. They were off. Martha joined him, still giggling, grabbing her favoured red suede jumper where it was hanging over the railing and drew it around her shoulders.

"So, Mister. Where to next?" Martha asked, dropping into the jump chair.

The Doctor raised his left eyebrow at her. "Wherever you like, m'lady," he replied playfully, and Martha cocked her head to one side and proposed another planet. Just after she had a hot bath. He should, too, she insisted, or he'd catch a cold. With his scruffy brown hair all damp and sticking up everywhere, and with those big brown eyes in his slightly narrow face, he looked in every way like a puppy dog left out in the rain, and it was enough to make her lips quirk in a smile.

Despite her insistence, the Doctor released a dismissive, "Nah! Time Lord immune system, Martha. I don't get sick."

She rolled her eyes, climbing down from the jump chair and shaking a wet lock of black hair from her eyes. "If you say so," she sighed. "But me, I'm taking a nice, hot bath and you know, I reckon I'll have a hot chocolate after, too. Fancy one yourself?" She knew he would never turn a hot chocolate down, and indeed he didn't, so Martha left the console room and headed down the steps to the washroom while the Doctor flew the TARDIS through space.

When she emerged a half hour later, rubbing a towel through her hair and feeling fresh, and after a light-hearted conversation over hot chocolate in the kitchen, he grabbed her by the hand and took her for a spin to a planet where everything was purple, and the pair of them didn't nearly die (for once). Martha wondered if he'd taken Rose here before.

After that they popped back to the TARDIS, both feeling a little tired out and ready for a good night's rest. Martha stayed up in bed, reading for half an hour before shutting out the lights. In the darkness of the room, waiting for sleep, she listened. There was only quiet tonight. Good. Quiet was good. It wasn't always quiet.

The first time she'd heard screams coming from his room at night, she'd gotten up to check on him. Upon poking her head through his bedroom door, which had been open just a crack, she'd found the Doctor shaking on his bed, where he was curled up in foetal position, arms over his head and pulling at that scruffy brown hair in his sleep.

Martha had almost shaken him awake and out of whatever kind of nightmare he was having. Almost. But then, for reasons she wasn't sure of, she'd pulled back, closing the door behind her and slipped back into her own room, afraid. And it happened several times after that. Martha was glad that tonight he was alright.

The next morning, Martha wandered into the TARDIS console room, yawning and gripping the steaming mug of coffee she'd fixed herself in the kitchen, eyes still heavy with sleepiness. Still in her pyjamas, she curled up on the jump chair with her feet tucked under her and sipped at the hot drink. Though the console room was always perfectly temperate (warm, even), Martha still liked a nice hot, coffee in the morning to wake her up. A few minutes later, the Doctor came up the steps from the side corridor, clad in his blue pinstripe suit and red Converses, his hair mussed even more so than usual from sleep and already talking at a mile a minute.

He went straight for the control panel, as was his wont, and took to tinkering with the jumble of wires, muttering about something being off with the displacement of something-or-other, though what Martha didn't catch. The Doctor had quite the gob on him and he tended not to realise just how fast he was capable of speaking, especially when he was jabbering on about complicated technical nonsense.

Martha didn't mind; she liked hearing him talk. But as she listened, catching only the occasional word here and there, she couldn't help but notice something … _off_ about him, something she couldn't put her finger on. After another minute, she interrupted, "Doctor."

His head popped up from where it was under the console. "Hmm?" He began to circle it, lightly rapping at the time rotor with his knuckles with his brow knitted. There was something a little off about his movements, too, and being unable to place it was starting to drive her mad.

"You alright? You sure you're alright?" was all she asked. He finished his rotation of the console and now, as he leaned against it casually, Martha observed something else. "'Cause you're shivering."

"I'm fine. Right as rain." The Doctor's tone was bright, light. Easy.

It took her a minute. But then she realised what it was, and that it was obvious. "You're ill," she accused. She'd already drained her coffee, and now she set it down next to her on the jump chair as she climbed down and crossed her arms over her chest.

The Doctor seemed more than a little miffed by her accusation. "I'm not," he protested indignantly, ever the stubborn five-year-old. "I told you yesterday, Martha: I don't get sick. Time Lord immune system. 'Member?"

Martha eyed him, sticking to her guns. "Your movements are sluggish," she stated matter-of-factly. "Your eyes are glittering — you're feverish — and you're shivering."

"It's chilly in here!" came his ready and blatant protest.

"It's not. It's warm. You, Mister, are sick." She tapped the console with one finger. "No planets, no adventures. What _you_ need is rest. C'mon." She took a brisk step forward, touching her hand to his forehead. It was hot — hotter than it should be, even with fever, and a worried thought passed through her. She'd assumed he'd just caught a chill, but it could be worse than that. What affects would a common human cold have on a Time Lord? She dismissed it; she couldn't worry about that now. What she knew about the Doctor's biology was precious little (she knew he had two hearts, but beyond that, nothing), and what she knew about alien flues was even less. But he was, at least, humanoid, and that'd have to be enough.

As predicted, the Doctor didn't take her accusation well. "I'm not — " he began, but one stern look from Martha and he shut up. Instead, he tried a different tactic. "I was going to take you to see the beginning of the solar system today. Don't you want to … "

"You can show me when you're better," Martha replied, not admitting to the slight enjoyment she felt in having this authority over him. "C'mon." He didn't budge, but when she came close she realised his arms were shaking in an effort to keep himself upright. With an impatient sigh, she put an arm around him, intending to drag him off to his bed by force if push came to shove, but to her surprise, he relaxed, seemingly glad to collapse against her. He was exhausted, and weak, Martha recognised, but he was just too bloody stubborn to admit it.

Either way, she half-dragged, half-led him to his room. He was somewhat heavier than she'd anticipated, and the steps leading to the side corridors were particularly difficult, especially when he dragged his feet. But she managed to get him down, and was grateful towards the TARDIS, who'd decided to give her a hand and move his bedroom right next to the steps, rather than down at the far end of the corridor where it normally was, and the door had been left wide open.

She stepped inside and lowered him onto his bed (which was unmade). He'd since closed his eyes, and she couldn't tell if he was asleep or not. It was hard to tell. He might even be unconscious. But then his eyes flickered open and his lips quirked into a grin. "Thanks," was all he said, and Martha watched in bewilderment as he laid his head down and shut his eyes again. She blinked, then turned to his wardrobe, opening the door and seeing if she could find any pyjamas. She found a pair of rumpled men's pyjamas that looked like they might fit him, because there weren't many beings in this universe, human, humanoid or otherwise, skinny as him. She turned around, shouldering the wardrobe doors shut, only to find him sitting up with his feet on the floor, engrossed in a book he'd snatched off the nearest shelf. He wasn't wearing his glasses, she observed, but of course, she'd always been sure he didn't really need them for reading. On the other hand, he was squinting at the pages in front of him, his brow furrowing, though that could just be the illness.

Martha snatched the book from his hands, giving a stern, "Put it down _now_." The Doctor blinked at her, apparently puzzled. She sighed, placed the pyjamas on the hardback chair which had suddenly appeared next to her and hunkered down next to him, resting her elbows on her knees. After some consideration, she decided to start with his shoes, wrestling them off his feet, followed by his pinstripe jacket, then his tie, and for the most part, the Doctor took it quietly, sitting still. It was when she got to unbuttoning his shirt that he jerked back unexpectedly.

"_Martha_!" he insisted. He breathed out a puff of air and murmured, "If you really want me to, I'll change myself. I'll be fine." Martha considered his words and whether or not she could trust him, but figured he was entitled to a little privacy and nodded, backing up. The Doctor's lips suddenly quirked in a grin and he added a jovial, "Blimey, though, don't you reckon we're taking this a little too quick?"

Fondly, she ruffled his hair. "Get some rest," she ordered, but kept her tone gentle. "No reading. I'll leave you alone." Martha was surprised again when the Doctor dropped back down, exhausted. His eyes were closed and this time, he didn't open them back up. She took a moment to check his breathing — a little on the ragged side but otherwise fine. And she took another moment to remove his glasses, which had been knocked askew.

She folded them up and set them down on the night table, then folded up his clothes and stuffed them into one of his drawers. Their contents didn't fail to make her smirk: many versions of the same brown pinstripe suit, a few variations of his blue one, and countless Oxford t-shirts.

Martha shut the drawer, and sparing one more glance at the Doctor, she parted his room, clicking out the light as she went.

oOo

Over the course of the day, Martha left the Doctor to rest. It was strange, being in the sentient old ship alone and not having him running about, all wild energy and words pouring out of him, going on about this or that. She was unaccustomed to the quiet. She had a cuppa of her own from the leftover hot water, which had cooled somewhat but was at least still lukewarm. She sat at the island counter, and it was just her and the tea and the faint humming of the engines in the background. When she'd drained her mug, she deposited it in the sink and headed to the med bay.

Martha had only ever been in here once, in search of an aspirin when she'd had a bit of a headache after a misadventure involving robotic spiders in Victorian England. She'd not taken a good look about, just headed straight for the medicine cupboard and popped a pill before heading off to bed, and she'd been just fine in the morning. Now she examined the med bay carefully: most of what she saw she didn't recognise, all of it was elaborate alien tech, maybe from the Doctor's home planet. In a far corner, there was something that looked like it might be a technically advanced scanner, and there was a cool metal table in the middle of the room with a collection of all kinds of monitors atop it: everything from what looked like a black-and-white 1950's telly to a holographic interactive screen.

A sigh as Martha leaned against the table. Her eyes wandered upwards to the ceiling, and, feeling only a little bit silly, she addressed the ship. "Can you help? Are there any medicines he needs? What's his usual body temperature?" A beep showed that the TARDIS had heard her, and the LED lights on the bottom of one of the monitors began to flash. After a moment, a few of the screens revealed a long sequence of characters … in the Doctor's language. All strange but elaborate and strangely beautiful circles. "In _English_, please," Martha added. Another beep, the screen flashed, and she was presented with some English text, which she now read.

The TARDIS couldn't translate the name of the Gallifreyan medicines into English, but she did translate it to a string of letters from Martha's alphabet, at least — "Kasyopfillo" — and she assumed she'd find a bottle of the stuff in the medicine cabinet. She was also surprised to discover that the Doctor's usual body temperature was only a few degrees above that of humans.

She searched the medicine cabinet, finding various alien pill bottles, most of them in glass vials rather than plastic containers, like most medicines of earth were contained in nowadays, with long and complicated names. She found the bottle in question towards the back of the cabinet: a small glass flask filled with a thick greenish brown substance that, when she brought it near her nose, positively reeked, causing her to recoil in disgust.

Martha figured now was as good a time as any to check in on the Doctor, so, after wetting a cloth, she headed for his bedroom, grabbing a stethoscope on her way out. She knocked lightly on the door to the Doctor's room, but there was no response. Hesitantly, she opened the door a crack to find the Time Lord asleep in bed.

He'd been lying on his back when she'd left him, but he'd since rolled onto his side with one arm hanging over the side of the bed and long fingers just brushing against the floor. Martha pulled up the hardback chair, setting the bottle of medicine on his night table and inserting the buds of the stethoscope into her ear. She pressed the device against his chest, listening closely. His left heart was thrumming out its usual four-beat rhythm, but the beat of the right one was a little off, slow and pumping blood weakly.

With a sigh, Martha removed the stethoscope from her ears and let the device hang from her neck and produced the damp cloth, pressing it against his forehead and mopping up the sweat, brushing back his brown hair where it stuck. He didn't even react.

She was about to gently shake him awake for his medicine and was fumbling with the stubborn stopper when a faint whispering caused her to look up, alarmed. "Doctor?" she asked softly, but he was still asleep. Her eyes travelled upwards as she wondered if it was the TARDIS speaking to her, but then the weak murmur came again and she realised he was talking in his sleep.

His voice was hoarse and weak, but audible. He was going on in what would have sounded to anyone else like gibberish, but Martha could only assume it was an alien language, perhaps his own. Probably. The TARDIS translation matrix wasn't working, maybe it needed him conscious to function, or perhaps his language just didn't translate, unless it absolutely needed to, like it had for her back in the med bay.

Though he was murmuring in an alien language, the occasional English word passed through his lips — or, more accurately, the occasional name. Someone called Susan, and a Romana, a Jack, and something about an ace.

These were all new to Martha, but he also uttered a name that she'd heard him say a thousand time before: Rose.

The "friend" of his, who he said was happy and safe with her family, but Martha reckoned that _Rose_ had been more than just a friend to him. Actually, it was obvious. And she was starting to think something awful had happened to her. That she'd died, maybe. Ever since she'd started travelling with the Doctor, Martha had seen more than her fair share of deaths. What was to stop that happening to one of his companions?

What was to stop that happening to Martha herself?

Martha pushed that thought away. She returned to gently mopping the Doctor's brow, trying to ignore his whisperings and the occasional, gut-wrenching whimper he released.

After a couple minutes had passed, she gently shook his shoulder. A few shakes and he blearily opened his eyes, letting them take a moment to focus on her. "Oh. Hello. Morning," he said, with a small grin.

"Morning to you," she answered wryly, giving him a little smile of her own. "How you feeling?"

"Better. Better, better, much better. I reckon I've had enough bed rest — "

He moved to sit up, but Martha pushed him back down lightly and turned to the flask in her hand, now successfully removing the stopper and pouring a spoonful of the putrid smelling liquid into the cup of the tablespoon she'd grabbed. She brought it to his lips. "_Shh_. Here."

He sniffed it suspiciously, then recoiled. "Oh, that is _disgusting_." But she gave him her best stern glare and he bent. "Fine." Wrinkling his nose, he took the spoon, shoving it into his mouth himself, and gagged as it went down. "That really is awful."

Martha took the spoon from him and crossed her legs. "Well, the good news is that if you get better soon and _rest_," — she shot him a pointed glare — "then you won't have to take any more. The bad news is that one of your hearts is off-beat, but here's to hoping you'll be fine soon." A pause. "If. You. Rest."

The Doctor lifted his hands, running them over his face. He didn't mention the headache, or the dry feeling in his mouth. "Oh, alright. But you'll see, tomorrow I will be absolutely fine."

"Yes. We'll see."

oOo

She'd spent the rest of the day by his bedside, alternating between checking on the Doctor and reading a book, as she had nothing else to do. As for the Doctor, he'd spent the day sleeping and drinking tea — she'd offered to fix him soup but he'd refused her request — and a ways into the evening, he'd insisted on reading. His eyes had lost their feverish glint at that point, so she'd let him, but before long, he'd gotten tired and fallen back asleep after insisting that she, too, get some rest.

Lucky for Martha, the TARDIS had placed her bedroom right next to the Doctor's, so she allowed herself a few hours of sleep. She only just realised how tired she was. She slept longer than she'd intended to, but when she woke the following morning, she shot out of bed and hurried to the Doctor's bedside, expecting to find him either asleep or reading again.

But she hadn't expected to find his room empty, sheets and blankets in a tangle and pyjamas lying draped over the back of the chair and forgotten. Martha frowned, poking her head into the kitchen to see if he'd decided to fix himself a cuppa, but that was empty too.

She found the Doctor a minute later, in the console room, predictably. He'd changed back into his pinstripe suit, Converses, and tie, his hair absolutely everywhere and his glasses askew. He was huddled under the control panel, playing with the wires. When he heard Martha enter the room, however, he looked up and crawled out for under the console.

"Martha! Listen: I was thinking, I haven't taken you to the past nearly as much as you deserve, so I was thinking you possibly wanted to go back to New York or Los Angeles or Chicago, maybe, and see the first talkie film in 1927? _The Jazz Singer_. Brilliant piece of work, that, brilliant, and featuring Al Jolson. Good mate of mine, Al, though I reckon he'd be a little cross with me; I may or may not have stolen one of his shirts … oh, it was a long time ago and I looked a little different then, may or may not have had blond hair and had a thing for celery … so I don't suppose he'd recognise me, but you know how it is … " He trailed off, noting the look she gave him. "What?"

"You were sick," Martha accused him. "Don't you reckon you should get a little more rest, maybe just a day, before we go and see Al Jolson in the first talkie?"

The Doctor was unfazed. "I _was_ sick. And now I'm better. See?" He spun around, and Martha had to admit he did seem fine. He was perfectly coordinated again, his brown eyes were bright as usual, and his voice just as energetic as it normally was. But he'd been in a miserable state not twenty-four hours ago! As if he'd read her mind, the Doctor said, "I told you. Time Lord immune system, Martha."

She still insisted on checking his temperature and heartbeat, to which he agreed after only some grumbling. Both were back to normal. Martha sighed then, putting away the stethoscope. "Well, you don't seem sick. I think you're fine — that _is_ quite an immune system you've got, Mister."

Already, he was heading for the typewriter he had hooked up to the time rotor and was punching in coordinates for what Martha presumed would take them to 1927. The console room lurched violently, as it usually did thanks to his rubbish flying skills, and she was sent flying backwards, clinging to the railing and laughing. "Promise you won't get us nearly killed this time?!" she shouted above the sound of the engines, and in reply he just chuckled.

"Oh, what'd be the fun in that?"


	4. Anything You Can Do

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**Tales from a Wooden Time Machine**

This one is based off a prompt by the lovely **Ramonks33**.

oOo

Author's Note: Please excuse any minor tweaks to canon I might have made in this chapter. I don't recall if there's a gap between Donna's early episodes before her first visit home, as it's been a while since I've seen Series 4, so I've decided to presume there is. But don't forget to put forward requests for next chapter!

* * *

><p>Story Four | Anything You Can Do<p>

Summary: Set at some point after _Planet of the Ood_. Donna is tired of the Doctor knowing everything, so she challenges him to a game of Scrabble. Unfortunately she is unprepared. Light fluff with a little melancholy mixed in.

oOo

Donna Noble had been sleeping perfectly comfortably in her new bedroom on her first night in the TARDIS. It was a brilliant bedroom too, spacious and filled with the expensive kind of furniture that, back on Earth, she'd once admired in catalogues and dreamed of owning, but would never have been able to afford. Of course, aboard the sentient old ship there did not exist any concept of money or wealth, because the TARDIS could seemingly just _produce_ things, out of nowhere. Or maybe there was something of everything and the ship just transferred it all into one room. Donna didn't know: it was complicated, but she'd long since gotten her head around the fact that the ship was bigger on the inside; this wasn't as big a step. She just knew that this room was nice and posh and _hers_.

There was a slanted ceiling, like that of an attic, and there was a Persian rug on the floor. A four-poster bed made of strong wood with a thick red plaid bedspread, though she didn't hang drapes from the posts. There was a wicker chair by a desk in the far corner, and on the desk was an assortment of omnifarious knick-knacks from different planets, plus a small ceramic urn from Pompeii and a photograph of her father. The large wardrobe containing her clothes looked like the one leading to Narnia. (When Donna had noted this, the Doctor had vigorously agreed with her and ripped open the doors to check. It didn't). Finally, despite the fact there was an enormous library on the TARDIS, there was a small Scandinavian bookcase, which held a few of her select favourites.

Posh room or not, this old ship was the best thing in the universe. The grind of its engines was a melody in its own right, the deep tint of its battered blue box exterior the most appealing colour of the spectrum, and the faint but constant hum of the engines, combined with the console room, awash in that blue-green light, was the most soothing thing Donna knew.

She'd been waiting and hoping to hear the music of those engines again, and yearning to see that enigmatic blue box materialise outside her house, for about a year and a half. Bitterly regretting her decline when he'd asked her to travel with him. And she'd gone looking for trouble, because she knew that wherever trouble was, the Doctor was too. When she'd finally found him, Donna had been elated, and only more delighted when he'd proposed she travel with him again. She'd pounced on her _yes_ this time to join the most brilliant man in the universe on his anarchic journey amongst the stars, and now here she was.

Donna had been sleeping well, until she'd heard the thin and distressed wails coming from the Doctor's room, and had gotten up to investigate. There, he'd remained huddled in foetal position, shaking violently in his sleep as his screams filled the air. He'd kicked off his blankets; they remained in a pool of cloth on the floor. Donna had been afraid to wake him, but she couldn't very well leave him. She'd shaken him awake as gently as possible, and he'd seemed more than a little embarrassed at the prospect of being seen so vulnerable. "I'm fine, Donna, really," he'd insisted, shooing her off to bed. "Go back to your room and get your sleep, yeah?"

Tonight, Donna lay awake, listening. She wondered if she'd hear the sounds of his nightmares again, but it seemed he'd decided to stay awake. She could hear him in the console room, making a racket. How the hell he'd expected _her_ to be able to sleep over all that noise, she didn't know, but luckily, Donna wasn't tired anyway. With a resigned sigh, she climbed out of bed and changed from her pyjamas to some casual wear consisting of snug jeans and a T-shirt with puffed sleeves. She had no intention of going to sleep tonight, and might as well dress for tomorrow's adventures. Donna was in no mood to comb her bright red hair at the moment, so instead she tied it back in a ponytail.

She poked her head into the console room to see the Doctor tinkering with the wires, and he was so absorbed in his work he didn't even notice her. She observed, with a tiny smile, that he was singing a Beatles song to himself under his breath — _Paperback Writer_. "It's the dirty story of a dirty man /And his clinging wife doesn't understand …" Donna walked away, leaving him to it, and choosing to further browse the TARDIS library, which she reckoned must have been the size of all the libraries on Earth combined and then some.

She wandered aimlessly amongst the towering shelves, running her fingers along the spines of enormous books, but eventually she stumbled on a shelf holding movies on film reels; mostly old Hollywood stuff. Of these films there were aisles upon aisles, though she eventually came upon films in other forms of media. Donna supposed the Doctor liked to keep the movies in the format of their era. There were plenty of films from her future, too, in media she didn't know.

Passing through another few aisles of books, Donna suddenly stumbled on a small alcove holding only a shelf much smaller than the towering bookcases around her. The woman bent down and, upon seeing what it held, grinned: several board games, all of which she knew from her own time. She felt a sudden pang of nostalgia as she looked at them all, kept neatly in their cardboard boxes. Monopoly. Snakes & Ladders. Yahtzee. Clue. And … Scrabble. That was a game she still played today, with Granddad usually, as part of a Saturday night ritual. Their games could get quite competitive, actually, played over cups of tea and biscuits while Mum watched telly — _Top Gear_, usually, as it was a favourite of hers — maybe talked with her mates, or dull and distant over the phone.

Donna pulled out the box, exactly like the one she had back home on Earth. It, along with the rest of the games, had probably been purchased in the 20th or 21st century, and it made her smile to think of the Doctor going to a toy shop and buying himself an armload of games. Unless the TARDIS had produced them for him, but Donna preferred the first option.

She thought with fond irritation at how the Doctor sauntered about, knowing everything. And damn him if he didn't look sexy wearing those glasses of his, even if Donna looked for no more in him than a friend. Partners in crime, partners in time.

But, she thought, looking down at the Scrabble box in her hands, how well did he know this particular word game? Oh, he had his fancy vocabulary and hundreds of years worth of knowledge, which he showed off readily, but she was up for a challenge.

A permanent grin blessing her lips, Donna tucked the Scrabble box under her arm and left the library, heading for the console room. She found the Doctor still playing with the TARDIS, his glasses askew and his hair a mess. His tongue had slipped out between his teeth as he put all his concentration on the two wires in either of his hands, and he'd lifted off of a section of the metal grate floor, under which Donna saw more wires, jumbled and tied together in a tangled mess. "Oi, Spaceman," she called out, and he jumped, startled, not having expected her, nearly dropping the pliers he'd since picked up.

"Donna," he addressed her, standing and setting the pliers down. He adjusted his glasses. "What're you doing up? Or is it morning already? I never know, you see, when it's morning or not if I've been up all night and I lose track sometimes. Don't need much sleep, you see, being a Time Lord and all. And the TARDIS, she's been so stubborn, don't know what's got into her, so I decided to stay up to fix her. I reckon she's working fine now.

"So! If it's morning, then that means more adventures, yes? I was thinking, Donna, the planet of Brigànii, galaxies away from Earth and one of the most beautiful places I've ever visited. The skies are silver and the mountains are a rosy pink and tower up miles high. The air is absolutely breathable. Well, it does contain some polyneutral enzyme particles which do make your throat feel a little ticklish for a while afterwards but you should be fine and it's worth it to _see_ the place." He was ranting again, as was his wont, and already he was adjusting the piece of floor back in its place, now he stood and ran in a circle round the console. Donna watched him ramble, bemused. "Oh, but you'd love it there; it's brilliant, and their inhabitants are some of the friendliest you'll ever meet, and they love humans too, always very welcoming. Fascinating history too, I could go on for days! Whaddya say?"

By way of reply, she rolled her eyes. "It's bleedin' nighttime, Spaceman. Couldn't sleep, so I decided to get up and find you." The Doctor's fingers froze above the typewriter he had connected to the time rotor, where he'd been ready to type in coordinates, and looked a bit disappointed. Donna smirked and continued. "So before you take me to Bridge-whatever, I thought you might be up for a round of Scrabble." She held out the box. "If you know the rules, that is; I don't suppose you played on Mars."

He finally left the typewriter, running his hands through his hair. "I'm not _from_ Mars … " he muttered, now coming over to her. "But yes, yes, all that sounds brilliant. Scrabble! I've played before, Donna, and I must warn you … " he offered her a mock intense look. " … that I'm really quite good."

"We'll see about that, Spaceman," she returned, tossing her ponytail back and swatting him on the arm. "Kitchen? I always play over tea and biscuits." When he nodded in agreement, removing his glasses and pocketing them, she tucked the box under her arm and headed for the kitchen, the Doctor close behind. Arriving there, she thrust the Scrabble box at him as he took a seat at the island counter. "There you go, set up while I boil up some tea." Donna grabbed hold of the kettle and filled it with water before setting it on the stove and taking to rummaging through the cupboards for biscuits.

Crammed behind an immense tin of coffee beans, and underneath some herbal teas — the cupboards were positively overflowing with varying snack foods, not all from Earth — she found an unopened box of chocolate chip biscuits and another of oatmeal. "Splendid," she said to herself, emptying these onto a platter. Behind her, the Doctor was busy going through the letter tiles, trying but apparently failing to find enough to spell out the word 'supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.' "Oi," Donna called out to him, now removing the kettle from the stove, which had begun to whistle, "you can pick no more than seven letters, you know."

"On Earth, perhaps," he retorted, leaning back in his stool and spinning around. "But not for me. I always play with up to fourteen. Much more fun."

She came over with two hot mugs of Earl Grey, and jerked her head, indicating he should grab the biscuits. Wisely, he did so, and even got the milk and sugar too. With their snacks set up on the island counter and the board spread out, she sat down opposite him, pouring in the desired amount of milk and sugar and grabbed a biscuit, taking a thoughtful bite. Mum always said tea was good for the soul.

Donna of all people knew that to be true. Especially after Lance and her first meeting with the Doctor, and she came close to cracking, she'd always turned to a cup of tea. Tea helped her to relax after a fight with Mum over finding a steady job and a man and not being so damn brash — even as a baby she'd been loud and stubborn, she was told, apparently used to scream fits to raise the dead at diaper changes — and after her tea she'd go upstairs and look out the window at the expanse of stars in the ink-black sky. Tea had always been soothing, and she wondered if the Doctor sometimes used tea as a remedy himself.

"Right then," she said, leaning forward and reaching for the small bag. "Fourteen letters means we'll run out twice as fast. Unless you've got twice as many … " When he nodded, she rolled her eyes. "Oh, of _course_ you do! Fine, fourteen it is." She counted out fourteen tiles and drew them out, positioning them in front of her, and the Doctor did the same.

For the next ten minutes or so, they played normally, Donna playing well and the Doctor playing a bit better, though she insisted to herself it was because he had better letters. But a short ways into the game, after Donna victoriously set down 'ubiquitous' on a double word score and flashed her Time Lord opponent a smirk of her own, he only gave her a little smile back.

Ever the smug alien bastard, the Doctor set down his own letters without missing a beat, and leaned back in his stool with a "Ha!" He grabbed a biscuit and took a bite, seeming pleased with himself. Donna, meanwhile, stared at the word he'd set down in bewilderment..

"What the _hell_ does 'aspegenioherna' mean?!" she exclaimed, glaring up at him.

"It's from the language of the Praslines, Donna, don't question it! It's still a word!"

"For God's sake, in _English_, Skinny," she snapped with such fire in her tone that he sighed and removed his letter tiles. After some pondering, he put down the word 'hernia' instead. Took another bite of his biscuit.

The game lasted nearly another hour. Now bound to this English-only rule, the Doctor was a little crushed, and Donna was winning by a considerable amount of points. He couldn't believe he was being held back by winning because of some rule. When he'd played before, the Doctor had set down words in all sorts of languages. It was a stupid rule. He was now facing his final fourteen letters, and Donna had just played the word 'amethyst' with the _Y_ on a double letter score.

When he saw it. A perfect opportunity to win the game and blow his point score out of the water.

Grinning now for the first time in the last hour, he set down the word 'synecdoche' — a word he'd always been fond of and sometimes mourned being unable to use it more often in day-to-day conversation — on a triple word score, putting him four points ahead of his competitor at the end of the game. Leaping to his feet and grabbing the last biscuit, he released his proudest "Ha!" yet.

Donna slammed her palms down on the marble surface of the counter. "Oi, now that's just not _fair_." She glowered at him with enough ferocity to make him at least sit down again. The Doctor was clever enough to know there was no crossing Donna without a good slap. And he'd gotten his fair share of her slaps already.

"I did warn you." He still couldn't help but gloat just a little. "I'm _quite_ good." He waited, bracing himself for the feel of her hand against his cheek.

Huffing a sigh, she leaned back with her arms over her chest. "I don't bloody believe it. You go round cheating and then you win with a word like 'synecdoche.' I just don't bloody believe it." Now she stood, stretching. "Alright, Martian Boy, you win. Even if you did try to cheat … " The Doctor gave her another victorious grin, unable to wipe it from his face, and she suddenly leaned forward to whack him on the arm. Hard.

"Ow! That hurt!" he exclaimed, rubbing at the spot. "No need to be a sore loser, now." She only flashed him another glare of annoyance. _If looks could kill … _

But within seconds they were both laughing. Properly laughing, shoulders shaking, eyes watering, and all that jazz. Packing up the game, they headed over to the TARDIS library together. The Doctor figured he'd show her a film, an oldie on a film reel. _A Streetcar Named Desire_, maybe. Then they'd have some breakfast before heading out to Brigànii.

The duo entered the library and the Doctor picked out _A Streetcar Named Desire_. Donna was perfectly happy to join him as they set up in a snug area the TARDIS had fixed for them to watch the movie. It was a nook in the corner of the library, with a large screen on the wall and two plush armchairs facing it. The Doctor set up the classic film and used a projector to show it on the screen while his companion curled up on one of the armchairs.

They watched the film peacefully, disturbing though it was, marvelling at the performance of Marlon Brando and the Doctor spewed out facts along the way. "You know, in 2021, this scene was voted #2 for Best Scene in Cinema History of All Time?"

Donna cast him a sharp look. "Oi! Shut up — watching." But she was smiling at him.

It was a good life they led, here on the TARDIS, and these, the Doctor thought, were the moments worth living for.


	5. Then Comes Marriage

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**Tales from a Wooden Time Machine**

This one is a prompt from **JackHarknessWouldLookGoodInFez**. (Amazing username, by the way).

Author's Note: I'm sorry, but it has to be said. Amy and Rory are absolutely the very best companions the Doctor has ever had and will ever have. The Pond Years are my favourite years, and both Amy/Rory and Eleven/River are my OTPs. The best TARDIS team will always be the Pond family, and even though I love all the Doctors equally, there's also just a special something in the relationship between them all. Especially, I think, for Eleven and Amy. It's not a romance, but it's still such a powerful bond. What do you lot make of the Ponds? Let me know with your reviews!

Trigger warnings: Some vague sexual content, reader discretion is advised.

Word Count: 3,352

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><p>Story Five | Then Comes Marriage<p>

Summary: Amy and Rory aren't exactly married yet, and he's starting to wonder if she still needs him. Strong [Amy/Rory]. Set a little after _The Vampires of Venice_.

oOo

They spill into the TARDIS in a tangle of limbs and laughter. The doors swing shut just as pellets of gunfire start to rain down on them. Amy falls on top of him, visibly giddy from the thrill of the run. A lock of her flaming red hair slips loose from its ponytail, tickling his nose, and even he can't help but grin. He isn't as mad as they are. He doesn't find narrowly escaping death as exhilarating as they do. But it is hard not to laugh anyway; their laughter is so contagious.

Hers especially.

She is still giggling and breathing hard, and she still has him pinned down. She bends over suddenly, brushing her lips against his in a brief but blissful kiss before climbing off and standing. The Doctor is standing too, and he heads directly for the console, as is his wont. Thankfully he sends them flying off into the vortex rather than sticking around. Good, it wasn't on Rory's day planner to get killed.

Rory has only been travelling in the TARDIS for a few days, on what Amy has taken to calling "the maddest of honeymoons," — even though it isn't a honeymoon because they aren't _married _yet — but he has already gotten used to the fact that the Doctor is always in the console room tinkering with something or other.

"If you keep fiddling with those controls, you're going to break something," Rory warned the Doctor once, but the Time Lord had only bopped him on the nose and told him to stop worrying. Except Rory wasn't worrying about _that_. _That_ was the least of his troubles. Just now, for instance, he'd been convinced he was going to die on a planet whose name he couldn't even pronounce some several hundred years in his future while his fiancée ran off with a time travelling alien donning a bow tie.

Rory is still busy catching his breath at the moment, but Amy has joined the Doctor by the console. She's curled up on the jump seat with her long legs tucked under her, and says simply, "That was an adventure." Her gaze darts over to Rory, still lying spread-eagled on the ground, and calls out concernedly, "You alright?"

"Fine," he gasps out, standing also. He joins them by the console, and she scoots aside to give him space on the jump chair. Rory sits down, and she happily rests her head against his shoulder, cuddling up close to him. She smells like apple shampoo.

"Yes, _quite_ the close call there, Rory!" the Doctor calls out. He has since crawled under the console, now he pops back up again with his fringe in his eyes. "We nearly lost you. Glad we didn't." He pulls his sonic screwdriver out of his pocket and begins to play with it, tossing it in the air and catching it. "I don't suppose you want to go somewhere else before bed?"

"I think that'd be best," Rory says, then glances over at Amy, still cuddled up against him. He waits for her to say she's going to stay with the Doctor, so he's pleasantly surprised when she nods in agreement and mumbles something about being a little tired too.

At this, Rory climbs down from the jump seat and shuffles over to the corridor where the bedroom he and Amy share is usually found. When he reaches the top of the steps, however, Amy still hasn't joined him. He pauses and turns. She is still curled up on the jump chair, but the Doctor's joined her and she's tipped her head back laughing. Catching Rory staring, she holds up her index finger. "I'll be there in a minute. Go brush your teeth or something." He still doesn't move. "I promise," she adds, and he straightens his back and heads off.

He brushes his teeth in the small loo across the corridor, taking a long time at it before going to their room. Amy is there, in her nightdress, sitting on the top bunk with her legs swinging over the edge. She's untied her hair, and it falls down her back, catching the light and giving off the impression that her head has been set ablaze. When he comes in she flops back on the mattress. "There you are," she harrumphs. "What took you so long?"

"I was brushing my teeth," Rory replies curtly, stripping off his shirt and reaching for his pyjama tops. He's never been one for pyjamas, really, he usually sleeps in just his pants but he found these flannel ones on the TARDIS and they're just so comfortable, even if they make him feel like someone from Victorian England, which they've already visited twice.

Amy raises one coy brow. "For twenty minutes?" Scottish vowels drag out in the way Rory has never been able to resist. "Come on, up here on the top bunk with me." She pats the mattress next to her and he climbs the ladder to join her.

It is a tight fit, and not for the first time, Rory finds himself yearning for a double bed. On the other hand, it certainly makes for some, well, snugly moments. Amy rests against his shoulder. "This is intimate," she drawls. Her tone is coy, and he can't help but to wind his hand up her back and into her hair. "Don't roll over and fall off," she says.

He playfully pretends to lose his balance, and she sits up with a laugh, hitting him with the pillow, causing him to nearly topple backwards off the edge, ironically. Her eyes widen in alarm and she pulls him to safety. They agree to leave the antics for somewhere safer, press themselves closer together and right up against the wall. Amy closes her eyes and snuggles against him again, jamming her hip into his torso just so.

"Let's sleep," she murmurs. "Long day tomorrow. Doctor says he's gonna take us to … what was it? Oh, right. This planet called Sol 7. It's supposed to be beautiful there. He says there are cliffs made of diamonds." She lifts her head just so and gives him another kiss. This one is brief, too, but the taste of it lingers on Rory's lips after she's pulled away. "What d'you think?" she adds.

For Amy's sake, he agrees. But only for her sake. At this point, he wishes they could just get married like they were supposed to have done already. Also at this point, she's fallen asleep.

oOo

Rory wakes up to the sound of clattering. It is loud and very close to his ear. Blinking his eyes open, the 21-year-old sits up, and next to him, Amy is waking too. She rolled over during the night, off his arm and facing the wall. Now she turns over. Rory's vision is still blurred from sleep, and it's Amy who brings him to full wakefulness. "Doctor?"

By now, Rory's head has cleared and he registers the Doctor: tweed, braces, bow tie, chin and all, in their room — _their_ room! — leaning over a new furniture addition of a small circular table that reminds Rory of the kind one sees in Parisian cafés. On the table is a teapot adorned in a rose print with matching china cups, and a basket stuffed with what looks like pastries. When Amy addresses him, he looks up, cheery as ever. "Amy, Rory. A Parisian breakfast for the happy couple. Forget Sol 7, we're going to 1950s Paris today. Hence the furniture addition."

Carefully, he turns to the table and pours what is apparently coffee into the cups. He goes on, "I reckon you should get into character, yes?"

Despite the early hour, Amy, meanwhile, lets out an ecstatic squeal. She doesn't hesitate to climb over Rory, shimmy down the ladder, and throw her arms around the Doctor's neck. "Paris! I've never been to France! Oh, it's _perfect_! Thank you, thank you!" At times like these, she is the little seven-year-old girl she was when she first met the Doctor all over again. Rory wonders how things would have turned out if the Doctor hadn't been 14 years late and she'd gone with him then. What kind of girl would she be?

Eventually Amy detaches herself from the Doctor and turns to face Rory, who is still sitting on the bed. "Paris, then, Rory? What do you think?"

Rory doesn't want to visit Paris. He wants to go back home and get married like he and Amy were supposed to. He wants a life that is relatively normal and doesn't have bigger-on-the-inside spaceships. Paris sounds like a fine destination, but he wants to go for his proper honeymoon, in his own time, just him and Amy. Besides, when they last tried for a romantic destination, the Doctor took them to 16th century Venice. And look how that turned out. He'd like some romantic trip, just him and Amy, where there are no aliens trying to take over the planet in question.

Him and her and a proper snog before checking into a hotel room. When he proposed, Rory and Amy agreed to wait until after their marriage, but he isn't so sure she hasn't already had sex. This is Amelia Pond they're talking about after all.

He says, "Paris sounds brilliant."

oOo

The Doctor gives them some time to themselves, thank God. He heads off to visit a museum by himself while Amy and Rory go for a stroll along the Seine and buy croissants at a nearby bakery before visiting the Eiffel Tower and Arc du Triomphe. They wrap the day up with champagne and a small supper at Café de Flore. As planned, they meet the Doctor by the TARDIS where he parked it at the agreed-upon time. He is only ten minutes late, and arrives donning a bowler hat.

Amy is leaning against the TARDIS next to Rory, arms crossed over her chest. She nods in the direction of the bowler hat. "Where did you get that?"

He seems perplexed for a moment, until he realises to what she is referring, and snatches it off his head. "_Oh!_ This. Right, yes, yes." He goes on like this, pulling the TARDIS key from his pocket and opening the doors, even though Rory knows he can open them with a mere snap of his fingers. They enter the spaceship / time machine, the Doctor in front and Rory at the tail. He shuts the doors behind them all. Amy makes a beeline for the jump seat and the Doctor heads for the lower level of the console room. The Time Lord sits on the swing and begins to fiddle with the wires. Rory, for his part, joins Amy on the jump chair, and she gives him a smile, humming _La Vie en Rose_.

Finally, the Doctor pops up. He's removed his bowler hat and tweed jacket, and Rory can't help but notice Amy look him up and down unchastely. He looks away.

Amy's still humming, and the Doctor catches it. "_La Vie en Rose_!" he exclaims, pleased. "Édith Piaf, lovely woman. Had breakfast with her once. Lovely woman, like I said. So disturbed, but brilliant. And what a voice!" He now hops over to the console, presses a few buttons, and the song oozes out of the TARDIS' speakers, Piaf's smoky voice rich and gorgeous. The Doctor begins to move his arms in time with the music like an orchestra conductor. Within seconds from there, he takes to dancing to a sort of awkward waltz, long limbs everywhere.

And Amy, like she always is, is delighted. She tips back her head and giggles, before leaping down from the jump seat. "You can dance, Doctor?"

The Doctor grabs her in his arms and twirls her around. "Why, of course I can dance, Pond," he retorts, sounding slightly offended. "I'm over 900 years old, if you recall. Surely you would think I've picked up on dancing by then. I travel through time and space and just because of that, you assume I don't _dance_!" He dips her low, tries to twirl her around again, and promptly drops her, sending her sprawling on the glass floor. The whole time, she's giggling.

Like a little girl.

The girl who waited.

"Not very well, I see," Amy purrs, picking herself up and tossing her hair back. She holds a slim hand out to Rory in invitation and temptation. "How about you, Mister Pond? May I have this dance, then?"

Rory's face flushes. "I don't … dance, Amy. Remember?"

She widens her eyes just so and gives a tiny pout, in the way she knows he can't resist. "Please, Rory?" she wheedles. "We're going to _have_ to dance after our wedding; might as well practise." She bats her eyelashes, and before Rory knows it, he's on his feet and she's in his arms. They twirl around in the TARDIS together to Édith Piaf. The Doctor flops onto the jump chair, setting his feet up on the console, apparently deciding to sit back and watch.

Rory has never been much of a dancer, but he's careful not to step on her feet as they waltz around in the console room. And at least he doesn't drop her. He's a little awkward, but Amy guides him along, thankfully. They come closer together, and Amy's arms slip around his neck. Green eyes meet hazel.

Closer still, until not a sheet of paper could fit between them. It's now that she lifts her hands and rakes her fingers through his sandy brown hair. Though she's only about an inch shorter than he, Amy stands on her tip toes just slightly and kisses him full on. It's a proper snog that lasts a while. Lips and tongues compete for dominance until they both pull away at the same moment, gasping for breath.

"A-_hem_," the Doctor clears his throat loudly, giving them both cause to jump a foot in the air and away from each other. He looks as though he's just seen something he wished he hadn't. "Leave that to the privacy of your bedroom, Ponds."

"I'm not a Pond," Rory protests, not for the first time.

The Doctor smiles. "You will be soon," is all he says, ignoring Rory as he opens his mouth to point out that it doesn't work like that, and Amy will become Amy Williams. On second thought, he's not sure Amy will tolerate being a Williams, and one wouldn't want to ruin a name as brilliant as Amy Pond anyhow. Rory promptly closes his mouth, and this seems to please the Time Lord.

On the other hand, Amy has very different logic. "Oh, we could," she says. "And believe you me, we _would_. If only you'd let us get rid of those godforsaken bunk beds and give us a double. Then we'd leave everything to the bedroom." She goes on to shoot Rory a wink — an honest-to-God wink! — and he feels himself blush.

"Bunk beds are cool," the Doctor answers simply. Rory reckons he's trying not to imagine what Amy plans on leaving to the bedroom. The track has changed to an Elvis song, and he reaches over to press a button, turning the sound system off.

The Doctor could take them to Sol 7 now but it's late and the day's been (mostly) perfect. Mostly. Probably perfect for Amy, Rory thinks. It was like he said before. For Rory, a perfect day wouldn't involve the Raggedy Doctor and the TARDIS, just him and Amy, maybe in Paris together. Modern-day Paris, not 1950s Paris.

They head off to their bedroom, and while they've agreed to leave sex for after marriage, they still curl up on the same bunk together, like always. Rory sleeps shirtless tonight, much to Amy's enjoyment. She cuddles up to him, fingers running gently along his bare chest. "Rory?" she asks after a minute's silence.

"Hmm?" he murmurs, his own fingers snaking over to stroke her hair.

She props herself up on one elbow. "Do you like the Doctor?" she asks shortly. He's caught him off-guard; his mouth opens and closes once or twice. "You don't," Amy says, though her tone isn't accusatory. "Do you?"

Flustered, Rory considers his words. "I don't know," is his final response. "To put it plainly, I have very mixed feelings about your Raggedy Doctor." Because he really does.

The Raggedy Doctor was all Amy ever talked about when they were kids. In art class, she used to draw pictures of him and his blue box. Once in Year Eight they were all required to make papier mâché dolls and of course Amy made herself and the Raggedy Doctor. She used to make Rory dress up like the funny man who showed up in her garden one April night, whenever she came over to play. Amy dragged him off to the master bedroom, tore open the wardrobe, took his father's best clothing and nagged Rory into wearing it so he could dress up to look like the Doctor. She even cut up his dad's best dress shirt with scissors so as to bring about full accuracy, despite Rory's violent protests. "He's the _Raggedy_ Doctor for a _reason_," she said. Even in English class, Amy just wrote made-up stories about herself travelling with him. "This is all the stuff I want to do and all the places I want to go when he comes back for me," she said.

When they were still little kids, Rory had assumed it was just a very elaborate game she'd made up — Amy had always had a runaway imagination well before that fateful night — but it was when they were about nine that he realised how seriously she was taking it, a whole two years later. And Mels, their best mate, had believed it all too for some reason. The older they got, the more obsessed she became. After a while, Amy had stopped enforcing it on Rory and even Mels, but whenever he went over to her house, her drawings and dolls were still all over her bedroom.

Needless to say, he'd been beyond surprised when the Raggedy Doctor showed up twelve years later, and even more surprised when he came back yet again two years after that, on the eve of his and Amy's wedding, and that fiancée had already had her share of adventures with him before Rory was invited along.

Right now, Amy is frowning. "What do you mean? Is it because I left? Oh, Rory, it's not because I left, is it? I was always going to come back. Of course I was." She seems a bit hurt, and this time she's not doing it to manipulate him. "You didn't think I'd just leave you, did you, stupid?"

Rory doesn't tell her how upset he really was when he found out she ran off like that. How long was it for her, he wonders? How many adventures did she have before coming back home? The worst of it is that he can't blame her. Why would Amy Pond, who's always been a bit larger than life, want to stay in boring little Leadworth when she could go off on adventures through all of time and space with her Raggedy Doctor in his brilliant blue box? Maybe she doesn't really need Rory at all now that her imaginary friend has come back for her. But instead, all Rory answers is, "I guess so. I guess that's it."

"Oh." She flops back down and rests against his chest. "Well, there you are. Being stupid again!" Her tone is notably lighter now. "Don't think that. We'll go on some more adventures, and sometime soon we'll go back for our wedding. It's much more fun when you're with us anyway."

She falls asleep shortly after, but he's left lying awake, pondering. Rory doesn't know if she means it or not. But she's said it, and Amy has always been, for the most part, always true to her word. It's enough.


	6. Infinity, Ponds, and Other Matters

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**Tales from a Wooden Time Machine**

Author's Note: Just a brief announcement that this story will _not_ feature Twelve. This isn't because I haven't been enjoying Capaldi, because I really have been. It's just due to the fact that he's definitely really a difficult Doctor to write for and I'm not sure I can pin down his character just yet, especially since his run hasn't even finished yet. I probably will write for him in the future, just not in this anthology. So, next chapter I'll be renewing the cycle and writing another oneshot about Nine and Rose, so feel free to leave prompts or requests in your reviews! And of course a story including Jack is a bonus, because I think Nine/Rose/Jack are an absolutely amazing team that deserve more stories.  
>Also, many apologies for the slow updates. I've been writing in all my spare time, but even though I'm on Christmas holiday I don't have too much of it. Bear with me, and hopefully soon I'll be able to return to my usual weekly to biweekly posting schedule. Also excuse this one's length.<p>

Word Count: 2,933

* * *

><p>Story Six | Infinity, Ponds, and Other Complicated Matters<p>

Summary: The Doctor accidentally drops by on a Sunday, but Clara decides to join him for the day anyway. She's just a little surprised by the consequences. Set at some point after _Hide_. Some Ponds nostalgia.

oOo

Clara Oswald hated Sundays.

There were several things she detested about the final day of each week — for instance, the fact that half the shops were closed, including her favourite tea lounge; and that this distant great-aunt of hers always rung to see "how she was faring" despite the fact they'd never met face-to-face — but mostly, and obviously, it was because Sunday evenings were plain miserable because she'd have the reminder of Monday morning hanging over her head.

Now, Clara did like her job. But like any sane human, she preferred lounging around on weekends to work days, and she still had to wake up early. Clara was definitely not a morning person.

Of course, she had Wednesdays to look forward to. Those were, for blatantly obvious reasons, always the highlight of Clara's week. The Doctor always told her they could go on more adventures that day, that she could spend as long as she wanted before going back, and that he could return her home mere minutes after she'd left. Sometimes Clara did choose to hang about for a little longer. She had a bedroom on the TARDIS and had slept there a few times, but she and the sentient ship didn't always get on terribly well and besides, she had to get back to her life eventually.

Clara could tell she was unique in comparison to his past companions in this regard. She'd once stumbled into what was obviously a girl's bedroom, but it wasn't her own. It had been all pink and pretty with an overflowing white wardrobe and a lava lamp in one corner. The most significant thing she'd noted were the framed photographs on the vanity: of a pretty blonde girl, nineteen or twenty, smiling for the camera alongside a very attractive man with a killer smile clad in an old-fashioned 1940's jacket. Clara had quickly closed the door, and hadn't come across that room again, but it had been enough for her to understand that the Doctor's past companions had definitely spent some time travelling with him.

And she often got the impression that each time he dropped her off back home, he'd go sprinting back into the TARDIS and jump forward another week before racing back out to knock on her door yet again. Actually, she was sure of it. Once he came by as per their Wednesday ritual with his fringe hanging in his eyes the exact same way it had been the week before.

Not that Clara minded at all. He still listened as she updated him on her week before leaning over the console and asking her, with near amusing seriousness, "So, Clara Oswald, where do you wanna go next?" And they'd go flying off somewhere and have a grand old time.

But then, once in a while, she'd catch him looking at her oddly, in a way she'd not been looked at before in her 24 years. His brow furrowed, his deep-set green eyes fixated on her with a funny combination of intensity and confusion. Like she was some kind of puzzle. "What is it?" she would say, and he'd shake his head, smile, and shrug it off, dismiss it.

_Right then, Clara Oswald_._ Time to find out who you are_.

_You are the only mystery worth solving_.

When he'd told her these things, she'd assumed he'd meant them lightly, teasingly. Maybe as a term of endearment. Impossible Girl, he sometimes called her. But when she considered all of those funny looks he'd made a habit of fixing her with she couldn't be quite so sure. Maybe she really was some kind of nut to crack. Or a pearl. Except Clara didn't think there was anything particularly interesting about her. She had no mysteries to unravel, no secrets to solve.

But she tried not to think about it (too much). The Doctor was too brilliant, and had far too many wonders to offer. Clara preferred to enjoy their weekly adventures together rather than brood.

Today was Sunday, unfortunately, and she still had a few days until the Doctor came by again. She was, at present, seated at the kitchen table, still in her pyjamas, and reading the morning news online. A long cord snaked from her laptop to a plug in the wall. She sipped at a cup of coffee, and a grocery store croissant sat half-eaten on a plate next to her. It wasn't anywhere near as good, Clara thought to herself, as the croissant she'd bought in Paris 1950. Nor was the coffee as nice.

But it would have to do, and maybe they'd pop in at a French bakery this week. On occasion, Clara and the Doctor made numerous stops if they didn't get themselves in any trouble at first. The both of them came together with a craving for adventure and the awesome, and if they didn't leave a place without having nearly lost their lives, then they weren't one hundred per cent satisfied.

Clara was reading an article about some celebrity's engagement, only half-interested. She reached absently over and took a bite of her croissant — too doughy, and in desperate need of butter — just as there was a knock at the door. She groaned, setting down the food and got to her feet to answer it. It was ten in the morning, for crying out loud, and she was never fully prepared for human interaction until noon, at least.

She answered the door with a scowl pasted on her face, only to find herself staring at a tall male figure, all limbs and a chin to be reckoned with, sporting a ridiculous bow tie and a grin, green eyes bright as ever and half-concealed by his fringe. Clara didn't erase the scowl from her face as she snapped out, "You're early."

"Am I?" was the cheerful reply. "What time is it? You look like you've just got out of bed." One hand lifted to brush the dark hair out of his eyes with impatience. The grin didn't disappear.

She stepped onto the stoop, arms crossed over her chest. "No, I mean — it's Sunday. You're _supposed_ to come on Wednesdays, in case you forgot. And it's ten in the morning."

The Doctor seemed perplexed. "Oh. Oops. Well, might have missed by a bit, I do that sometimes. I did come for you last Wednesday, didn't I? I suppose I must've, or you'd probably be a lot crosser with me right now, and you told me I'm early, so never mind, scratch that. But, er, okay, so I'm early." He looked her up and down, and shrugged. "You could come along somewhere anyway, you know."

Clara sighed. She should be sticking to their schedule before it was thrown completely off whack. But on the other hand … "Oh, alright, let me get dressed." She stepped aside. "C'mon in."

He shook his head, answered that he'd wait for her across the street, in the TARDIS, and she agreed cheerfully, heading upstairs. She threw on a jumper and a skirt, some black tights, and polished off her croissant before crossing the street. The blue box was parked on the corner, barely hidden behind some shrubs. Clara pushed at the double doors. The old ship reluctantly opened up and let her inside.

She found the Doctor leaning against the console, arms crossed over his chest. He was slightly hunched over, so when she entered the ship he brightened visibly again, pushing off the control panel. "So! Clara Oswald, where would you like to go today?" he said all this, enunciating each syllable and pairing it up with a vigorous hand gesture. Clara wondered how he'd managed to avoid taking his eye out, given all the hand-flapping he did. She crossed her arms over her own chest and circled the room.

"Maybe … " she pondered, letting the word drag out with her thoughts. " … we should just hang about, y'know? In here." She shrugged. "What d'you think?"

The Doctor seemed only a little disappointed. "Oh, well — I was thinking we could go to the planet of Tãha, at this exact point in time they're having a triple solar eclipse and it's absolutely beautiful, but we could go on Wednesday if you want to carry on via our schedule." His eyes lit up as he mentioned the triple solar eclipse. It added to the affect of how excitable he could get sometimes, like a child.

That was one of the more charming things about him, Clara felt. He'd probably seen a plethora of solar eclipses in his lifetime, many of them with four or five or even six suns, for all she knew. And yet he got absolutely ecstatic when he so much as mentioned this triple solar eclipse. In fact, he got like that whenever he took her anywhere, like he was experiencing it for the first time. Sure, every time they went places he'd break into a long rant about everything he knew about the place, proving he'd likely visited before (plus, he _did_ like to show off), and yet he seemed just as thrilled as she.

Clara smiled, leaning against the console now herself. "Okay, we'll go on Wednesday. But let's fly this bloody ship up into the stars, just … " she struggled to find the right word. "Er, float?" At her description of the TARDIS as a _bloody ship_, the vessel's lights dimmed slightly as if in anger.

Her words drew a chuckle from the Time Lord as he walked over to type in some controls. "Yes, we can _float_," he teased, and bopped her on the nose. Presently he took to his typing, and he pulled a lever. The time rotor began to whine. "But behave."

"I will if it does."

Again, the lights dimmed, and the Doctor didn't fail to notice. "Oi, _she_. I thought I said to be nice."

But he chuckled again as they flew up into space, and soon there came the dull thud of landing. He walked up to the double doors, pulling them open, and just beyond them were the stars. Clara joined him, a smile crossing her face, the smile she could never help but pull whenever they were in space. At the moment it seemed they were floating above Earth. The pair of them sat down in the doorway, and their feet dangled loosely in space.

"You know," Clara whispered, not entirely sure why, "I sometimes still have trouble believing it. Like, maybe it's all just special effects and greenscreen."

Her words caused the Doctor to toss back his head and laugh quite loudly. "Well, you never know! Maybe the entire universe is." He pointed out at scattering of stars beyond them, bright and tiny and insignificant in the expanse of black. "_Maybe_ all this is just a hologram."

She leaned against his shoulder, smiling to herself. "I guess we have no way of knowing, do we? And … infinity is a lot to get your head around, isn't it? You can't really … imagine it all too well without getting too lost. You know?"

"Lost in infinity. Oh, I do like that. But of course it is. Even for me. I've visited so many places and times in my life, but I've not seen them all and I'll never be able to. I haven't seen every corner of the universe, because you can't see all of infinity. And that, Clara, is the saddest bit." His voice took on a faraway, almost dreamy tone, as did his eyes. Clara became suddenly aware of how out of place they seemed on his young face.

Too old for the rest of him.

The childish philosopher gave a small sigh.

Clara took his hand, unsure what motivated her to do so, and he stroked at the back of her hand with such gentleness, his fingers were a whisper on her skin. She sighed too, and her eyes wandered to their dangling feet. One of his shoelaces was undone, and she recalled it had been undone the last time she'd seen him too, just under a week ago. Clara noted this. "Your shoelace is untied again, Doctor."

He jumped slightly, having been snapped from his reverie. He looked down and chuckled. "So it is. Well, actually, it's _still_ untied, Impossible Girl."

Raising her eyebrows, she pulled away. "You didn't tie your shoelace since Wednesday?" Clara asked incredulously, and without thinking. As soon as she spoke, she realised that he had indeed decided to try and jump ahead. What had been several days for her had been five minutes for him. And maybe he did it so he wouldn't have to be alone.

The Doctor ignored her query, instead getting to his feet. He walked back to the console and leaned against it, his face taking on that faraway look again, and after a moment's pause Clara joined him, closing the doors behind her and with it the confusion of infinity. "Doctor?" she pressed.

He blinked. "Yes, Pond?"

"Pond?" she echoed, bewildered.

Another blink, followed by a shake of the head. "Nothing — no one. Doesn't matter." The words came in a package deal, for next he smiled and turned to the console, fiddling with one of the levers. Clara watched him sceptically from a distance, and noted the way his shoulders hunched just so. He seemed to become smaller, shrink into himself.

Clara would have liked to ask the Doctor about this mysterious Pond and who they were, but her curiosity wouldn't be satisfied today, it seemed, because she could tell how much pain it seemed to cause him. An old friend, perhaps, she thought. An old friend he'd lost. Maybe "Pond" was one of the girls who'd travelled with him before. Clara had seen the old pictures on the TARDIS monitors, and an image of the beautiful ginger girl with the long legs popped into her mind. Hastily she brushed the thoughts aside. No need to dwell on what she didn't know, and it wasn't her business besides.

By this point the Doctor had left the console and was now seated on the jump chair, his legs crossed. Another moment and Clara joined him. She leaned against the railing that was wrapped around the room. "I have to be back by Monday morning at least. I usually take Angie and Artie to school." When he gave her a blank look, she quickly explained. "Angie and Artie Maitland. The kids I look after."

"Oh, them," was his response. "School's a waste of time anyway. 85 per cent of the time you're just wasting time and rotting your brain away. One thing that never changes in the curriculum on Earth schools: all of it's rubbish."

"I've been wanting to become a teacher," she protested.

"Have you? Well, that's all good and fine, but that doesn't change the curriculum. Mind you, I reckon you'd make a wonderful teacher, Clara."

"Thanks," she smiled.

"You know," the Doctor said suddenly. His voice came seemingly out of nowhere. "I had a friend … who wrote books. Well, first she was a journalist. Wrote articles for travel magazines. And then she started writing novels. Good girl. Clever."

The thought in Clara's mind found its place on her tongue. It made itself comfortable, and then came sliding out from between her lips before she could stop herself. "Pond?"

His words were a sigh. "Yes … " Then he righted himself again and he pushed Amy and the guilt from his mind. He turned his attention to the girl in front of him. She was there next to him, leaning against the railing and quietly observing him. Her brown hair was in her eyes, and she lifted one hand to brush the bangs away. The Impossible Girl opened her mouth, perhaps to pose another query, and he cut her off. "Don't you reckon we ought to do something? A film, perhaps? I've quite the collection."

The enigma of a girl before him shook her head. "No. Maybe I should be getting back, yeah?"

The Doctor hopped to his feet. "Of course, yes," he answered, and his hands went to the controls. "If you like." He flew her home, and the silence and awkwardness was heavy in the space between them. When he landed the TARDIS across the street from her house, she walked to the doors without a word, and for just a moment he was terrified she was going to leave without saying goodbye.

_Stay with me, Clara Oswin Oswald_.

_Don't leave me alone, Impossible Girl_.

_… Please_.

But then she did turn, and her smile was on. "Bye, then, Doctor. See you Wednesday."

He joined her at the doors, crossing the console room with rapid strides. "Of course. See you then."

One hand raised in a flash of a farewell, and then she jogged across the street. The enigma entered her house, and closed the door behind her.

The Doctor waited a few seconds, then closed the double doors to his ship and dashed across to the console. He punched in some coordinates and took the TARDIS to the next Wednesday in her timeline. One glance at the monitor screen revealed that it was raining rather heavily.

He hurried across the room to see her again, tugging his tweed jacket over his head as protection from the rain. Somewhere around here there was an umbrella, he knew. Or probably there was, anyway. But he couldn't be bothered to search for it. Just before heading outside, the Doctor bent down and tied his shoelace.

Didn't want to get caught again.


	7. Two Mad Men in a Box

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**Tales from a Wooden Time Machine  
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oOo

This one's a prompt from **JessicaWhoCouldEndTheWorld**.

Author's Note: So I'm cheating the system a wee bit because not every scene in this chapter is set in the TARDIS, but it is for the most part, so I think that's fair enough.  
>And no, I <em>don't<em> ship Jack/Rose. I love Jack to downright bits, he easily ranks in my top 3 companions, but I just have trouble shipping him with anyone but Ianto. (And with Ten, as a little bit of a guilty pleasure).

* * *

><p>Word Count: 4,392<p>

Story Seven | Two Mad Men in a Box

Summary: Post _The Doctor Dances_. Jack is the new member of the TARDIS team, and Rose briefs him on what to expect. Hints of [Nine/Rose].

oOo

Rose, for her part, didn't fancy him; Jack could tell.

Oh, sure, she'd flirted with him all too readily, danced with him and drank champagne with him atop his spaceship with a view of the London Blitz — admittedly not the most romantic of locations — and she probably wouldn't protest if he kissed her here on the spot, but she didn't fancy him.

Jack was hardly used to the feeling of not being desired, but he didn't mind too much. What he was accustomed to was girls (and men, and the occasional humanoid alien) flocking to him and trying to catch his attention, flirting, obviously itching to get to bed with him, and he was usually happy to fulfil their wishes.

But Rose wasn't really like the other girls who lusted for Jack. She shared their looks — at nineteen, she was quite pretty with her shapely frame and wide hips. She had clean, but slightly crooked teeth and full lips that looked like they'd be decent when it came to kissing. Large, whiskey-coloured eyes with heavy makeup and shoulder-length blonde hair. Fake, but it suited her. From the precious little Jack knew of early 21st century British culture, he could identify her thick accent to be pertaining to the lower class. If she'd had a job, it was likely at someplace like a diner or a shop. He could tell she had brains, but he could also tell that since Rose was only nineteen years old — practically a kid — and she was still immature in many ways, too. Oh, Jack knew her type, all right.

Yet she didn't throw herself at him as readily as the other girls of her _type_ Jack had encountered previously. She didn't love him, that was that, and Jack didn't expect her to. He also had a feeling he knew who it was she _did_ love. It was glaringly obvious, but it seemed that Rose hadn't noticed or acknowledged her feelings for the Doctor yet.

Then of course there was the matter of the Doctor himself. Jack wouldn't admit it quite as willingly, but _he_ was handsome too. Not really Jack's type, but then, he wasn't necessarily picky. The fellow time traveller was tall and broad-shouldered, and kept his dark hair cropped close to his scalp. His ears were large and stuck out noticeably from the sides of his head, and his eyes were a sharp, penetrating steely blue. Jack guessed he must be around forty, give or take a year.

At the moment, Rose was still twirling around the TARDIS console room in the Doctor's arms to an upbeat tune easing from the speakers, and shrieking with laughter. Her large hazel eyes positively shone when she looked up at the Doctor, and his blue ones mirrored hers. They downright adored each other.

She threw back her dyed blonde head as the Doctor dipped her low, and suddenly dropped her. She fell onto the floor, still laughing, as she looked up at him with an indignant expression. "Oi, watch it! That's the third time you've dropped me!"

The Doctor shrugged his shoulders, offering one hand to help her to her feet, which she took. "Well, okay, why don't you dance with Humphrey Bogart over there, then, yeah?" He nodded over to Jack, who was sitting casually in the jump chair. Jack stood up, gave a mock bow, and offered Rose his hand.

"May I have this dance?" he asked, as coyly as he dared. Rose giggled and nodded as she gave Jack one of her hands. He took it, twirling her around with all the charm that the Doctor evidently lacked. (Of course, with ears like those, could you really be charming?) Rose seemingly melted into him, still delighted to dance with him. The jaunty, upbeat tune switched to the slower one he'd played atop his spaceship, _Moonlight Serenade_. They danced to a sort of waltz around the centre console. The Doctor huffed loudly, crossed his arms, and watched them in irritation for a moment before turning to fiddle with something.

Rose's gaze slid in his direction, and she raised one eyebrow. "What's the matter with him?" she questioned, gently pulling away from Jack. She regarded the Doctor with an odd expression on her face — a curious combination between sympathy, curiosity, and scepticism. "We're just dancin'."

"Hmm," was his simple reply, and Rose threw her arms in the air.

"I'll just show Jack around, then, yeah? Get him a room?" she pressed, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning forward a little. "While you … tinker."

"Yep, sure, okay," he answered shortly. Without looking up.

At this, Rose stepped away from him and turned to Jack. She rolled her eyes fondly as her lips quirked into the smallest of smirks. No doubt she was accustomed to the Doctor behaving like this. "C'mon, Jack," she said, and reached out her hand. He took it, bringing it to his lips, and kissed the back of it. Rose's cheeks flushed furiously as she bit her lip and pulled away, then made her way to a small staircase leading downwards on one side of the majestic console room. "C'mon Jack," she said again, this time over her shoulder and with an air of nonchalance. Jack followed her.

He understood that he was lucky to be on the Doctor's ship — it was an exclusive crew that man led. That, and of course the fact that by having been invited onboard, he'd been saved from certain death. And, as a bonus, the small crew of two consisted of the Doctor and Rose, both of whom were pretty attractive, if Jack did say so himself.

He didn't know too much about their ship. He understood that they called it the TARDIS, and that it was bigger on the inside, apparently. _Extremely_ impressive tech. But just how far bigger on the inside went, Jack was uncertain. Rather big, it seemed, as Rose led him down a long corridor. Like the console room, it had a metal grate floor and the lighting was a bluish green. As she gave him a tour, she pointed out the rooms they passed. "So, that's the kitchen … and that's the lav … a closet … er, another closet … the Doctor's bedroom, 'cept he hardly ever sleeps in it; usually I catch him dozing in the jump chair in the console room … that's the library … this is the pool … oh! My bedroom!" She pushed open the door, revealing a snug room that was very, very pink. After Jack poked his head in, the tour continued. The lights suddenly flickered as they passed another door Rose didn't mention. Instinctively, both of them looked upward.

"Power outage?" Jack queried.

Rose shook her head. "Nah. This door wasn't here before … I reckon it's your room; the TARDIS must've just put it there. She was tryin' to let us know. Fun fact: the TARDIS is, er — well, the Doctor explains it better — but the TARDIS, she's kinda alive. A sentient being, you could say, and sometimes she moves rooms around and whatnot." She smiled a tight-lipped smile, waving offhandedly in the direction of the door. "Wanna take a look?"

"Sure," Jack answered. "I think we could use a bedroom. Yours is a little pink for my taste."

She rolled her eyes, and opened the door to reveal a bedroom about the same size as her own, but lacking in décor. It was actually a bit stark; just a simple (and unfortunately single) cot in one corner, plus a plain-looking wooden desk with a chair and a small mirror on the opposite wall. The walls themselves were a pallid, bleak sort of colour. Rose looked at him apologetically. "Mine started out like that, too. She takes a day or two to figure you out before you get any decoration."

The room looked like it had been straight taken out of a convent, but Jack had slept in far worse lodgings. Among them, countless jail cells which were only brightened by the company of his guards. Most of them weren't willing to get friendly with him, and fewer still to flirt or let him take them to bed, but the odd one did swoon in his presence if only Jack said the right thing and acted the right way. But he wasn't anything if not manipulative, and at some point could nearly always get them to not only get friendly, but let him go come morning. But that was besides the point. Even the jail cells were far from the very worst places he'd spent his nights in the past. In comparison, this stark room was rather nice.

"I've had way worse, believe me," Jack replied, and Rose nodded understandingly.

Now, he put his hands on his hips and stepped into the room, contemplating it further. "It's a single bed," he stated, not quite sure whether he was being persistent or was just teasing at this point, "but there'll be room enough for us both for the night. What say you, Rose Tyler?"

"Stop it," she said, authority creeping into her cockney tone, but she was blushing again. Jack waved one hand dismissively and sat on the edge of the bed. Rose took the chair, perhaps deciding to play it safe.

In synch, the two of them suddenly released heavy sighs. Rose rubbed at her doll-like face tiredly, flashing Jack a small smile. Jack flexed his arm muscles and gave Rose, in turn, a wolfish grin. But then she gave him a stern look, and he gave up for good. She crossed her arms, her smile returned; radiant, brilliant. "So," she chirped. "Welcome aboard, Captain." A pause, in which Jack said nothing, and Rose continued. "I guess it's a lot to take in first day, yeah? What ya saw there … that's only just the beginning. There is _so much more_ to see — even the Doctor doesn't know everything about what's out there, let alone me. I ain't been a passenger for that long; six months maybe. But — there's just so much stuff out there, stuff you and me can't imagine. The trip of a lifetime is what the Doctor says."

Jack cleared his throat. "Looking forward to it."

"Me, too. But it's not really what you'd expect."

"Oh, really? How so?" He raised his eyebrows at her, a mirror of an expression she seemed to flash him a lot.

Rose shrugged, her gaze sliding downward to her hands, folded in her lap. "Well — it's dangerous, but I reckon you already knew that and I suppose it's not a problem. You don't look like the kinda bloke to be hindered by danger." The last word she said with a small laugh before carrying on. "It's more the Doctor. He's not always what you think. He's … I dunno … _complicated_, if you will. Sometimes I think I'm still trying to figure him out."

Her words puzzled Jack, but he still leaned forward and said, coyness and wolfishness back in his voice, "That a fact? Well, maybe I could figure him out for you. And you could help, too."

"I'm serious."

Jack raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. You were saying?"

This emitted a heavy sigh from her. "It doesn't matter, really — forget it. You'll see what I mean soon enough. He just acts a little oddly sometimes, is all. Spends a lot of time brooding — don't think anything of it. Not 'specially social if he doesn't like you; and God knows he's got a temper, but he never turns it on me. He likes to save his anger for people who're trying to destroy whichever planet we're on." She looked upwards now, a grin blessing her face. When she grinned, her tongue peeked out teasingly and tantalisingly between her teeth. "He probably won't direct it at you, either, long as you don't annoy him. Although … annoyin' him shouldn't be too hard for you to do; given your little con back there." One eyebrow arched in accusation, and Jack shuffled his feet.

The Doctor suddenly poked his head into the room, startling them both. He'd removed his leather jacket, revealing a green knitted jumper underneath. "This your room, is it?" he queried, looking around. "She's already fixed you one. The TARDIS must like you."

"Of course she does," Rose replied, hopping down from the chair and crossing the small room to stand beside him. "Jack and me were just talking. I was tellin' him a bit about the travelling." Presently she turned her focus back to Jack, her face shining. "So, you're up for it all?"

"I think he's more or less bound here," the Doctor answered swiftly for him. "Unless you wanted us to offer you a ride home? Give up all of time and space and a fantastic life as a freelancer for your _agency_?"

Jack stood, too. A sudden quasi-tension filled the air, stretched between the three of them like an elastic band on the verge of snapping. He answered just as smoothly: "Not likely."

"Good," said the Doctor curtly, and sat on the bed. He bounced a little and chuckled softly. "You sure she likes you as much as you think?" He leaned forward on locked elbows and knees and he glanced up at Jack, and the tension eased somewhat. "Mattress is damn stiff, Captain."

Rose, who'd been standing in the doorway, joined him on the bed. They were doing an awful lot of getting up and crossing the room and sitting down, Jack noted. She bounced slightly too, her palms patting at the mattress. "A little," she agreed, and looked up at Jack with her heart-stopping, teasing grin. "Looks like you said something to irk her." She giggled, and the last remnants of the tension dropped entirely.

By now, Jack was starting to find himself at ease: a rare luxury in his life, for relaxation had never been an option. A few teasing lines and playful innuendos bounced around, and every wordless moment was usually filled with laughter. Things were going considerably well, especially between Jack and Rose, so he was surprised when the blonde girl stood suddenly and grabbed the Doctor by his sleeve, tugging him into the corridor. When Jack stood, she waved him back down and murmured something about a private word. She closed the door as she and the Doctor stepped outside, further sealing her intention.

Naturally, Jack waited a few brief seconds before getting to his feet and pressing his ear against the door. He heard only footsteps, so he opened the door as quietly as possible and peeked outside just in time to see the Doctor and Rose slipping into the restroom. Again Rose closed the door. Jack waited another second before stepping outside himself and crouching in front of the bathroom door; he listened to their conversation through the small crack between the floor and the door. Rose and the Doctor's words were hushed, urgent.

" … Jus' needed to talk to you … " Rose.

"I figured as much — what about?" The Doctor.

Her whisper took on a hesitant tone. "Well … to ask you a question. Do you … well, do you like Jack?"

A pause. "That's a loaded question."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well. Look, Rose. I care for you; I truly do and you know it, and I think you're the most fantastic human on that planet o' yours. But I do have to question your taste in men."

"_Excuse_ me?" Indignance in her voice.

"Does the name _Adam Mitchell_ ring any bells?" Sarcasm in his.

"Oh, come on. Be nice — how was I supposed to know he'd do what he did? Just answer the question, would ya? Do you or do you not like Jack?"

Again, that pause, in which Jack wasn't sure what to think or feel. The pause was tailed by a heavy sigh, and a final, curt answer: "Yes, I do."

"Good — that's what I thought."

oOo

It was late going by the TARDIS clocks, but Rose wasn't sleepy. The LED green lights of the digital clock on her vanity read 2:09 AM (not that it meant anything, clocks on a time machine could be unreliable), but that was beside the point. What mattered was that it was late either way, and Rose wasn't at all tired.

For the past hour or so, she'd been curled up in bed, tossing and turning as she tried to fall asleep. Maybe it was the excitement of having a new fellow companion onboard, one who was less likely to betray them and try to skew the timelines for his own monetary benefit. Adam, she now reasoned, had been a bad choice to invite, and the Doctor never failed to point this out if she ever mentioned him. Nor did he hesitate to call him all manner of names: a wanker, a tosser, et cetera.

Jack wasn't one hundred per cent trustworthy, she thought in the privacy of the night and the quiet. He _was_ a skilled con man, after all. He was also charming as hell, in a golden age Hollywood sort of way, far better-looking than any bloke Rose had ever dated. And then there was his _accent_. The Doctor had been right to nickname him Humphrey Bogart: every time he spoke in that dripping sexy American accent, she practically swooned. He was a flirt to say the least. Every other sentence coming from his mouth was an innuendo, but then she could tell it was just part of his personality. He didn't really mean anything by all of his pick-up lines. By now, he was just teasing.

Anyway, he sure wasn't another Adam. That much she could be certain of.

Rose turned over in bed again, huffed into her pillow, and finally realised the futility of her trying to fall asleep. She sat up, kicked off the blankets, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Stretched. Maybe she'd have a nice cuppa and a biscuit before heading back to bed. Tea would be pointless, because of course caffeine would keep her awake, but all the same it was something to do. She meandered into the kitchen and flipped on the lights.

The kitchen was deserted, and she was unsure why this startled her. This she reflected on as she set some water to a boil and leaned lazily against the island counter. Perhaps because of the times she'd caught the Doctor alone in the kitchen at night, in the darkness, with his head cradled in his hands. It wasn't a frequent occurrence, though: this had only happened twice. Once, after the Dalek in Utah and Van Staten, the second, after she'd witnessed her father's death.

It was the piercing whistle of the tea kettle that startled Rose out of her late-night reverie. Jumping, the blonde removed the kettle from the burner and switched off the heat. Grabbing a large red mug from the cupboard and pouring the scalding water into it, she veered her thoughts instead to what she and the Doctor and _Jack_ might do today. Maybe they'd go into the future, to Jack's time. The 51st century, after all! But he likely wouldn't really want what he was accustomed to: so perhaps the distant past; Ancient Rome or Greece, possibly?

Now she sipped at her tea, when another sound shook her from her daydreams, this one far less expected at this hour. It was the heavy grinding of the TARDIS engines, closely followed by the dull thud that came with a landing. The noise reverberated through the ship and sure to have woken her, had she been asleep. The sound would have woken Jack for sure. Mug in hand, Rose stepped out into the corridor — where the lights had turned on — to see Jack stepping out of his room, his eyes foggy with sleep and running his hands through his hair.

"What's goin' on?" she asked. It was silly, for Jack knew as much as she did (considerably less, actually), but to ask was pure instinct.

"No clue," he replied, his hands now rubbing over his face. "Sleep well?"

"I couldn't fall asleep. Hence the tea." She held up her mug.

"Ah. Where's the Doctor?"

She shrugged. "I know as much as you do, Jack. In the console room? That's where he usually is."

"Well, let's go and have a look-see." Rose nodded and she and Jack walked down the corridor to the console room. Arriving there, they found the room to be empty but one of the double doors was open. "I'm guessing he's outside," Jack said, and Rose nodded in agreement.

There followed a pregnant pause in which they both considered whether or not to go in search of him, and in the same moment, each came to a decision. They looked at each other, nodded once, and ventured outside, not thinking for a second that it might be dangerous; and for it to be dangerous was a likely conclusion. But the three of them all quietly craved their own forms of adventure, and danger reeled them all in. Like a fish to a worm.

However, upon stepping outside, Rose saw the place the Doctor had landed was not any place dangerous at all — quite the opposite, in fact.

They were on a roof, it was nighttime, and she was faced looking down on the dull grey colouring of asphalt on the ground below, occupied only by a lonely plastic basketball net. Squat flat complexes were arranged in a semi-circle around the asphalt clearing. The side of one building had been spray-painted with graffiti spelling an obscene word. Oh, Rose knew where they were, all right, and it made her breath catch.

She was home.

Was he kicking her off the TARDIS, sending her back now that he had a new member to their crew?

As her heart sunk lower and lower in her chest, she spied the Doctor. He was sitting on the other side of the roof, his legs dangling over the edge of the building. Furthermore, he was shirtless, and it confused Rose how the sight of him like this made her cheeks flush red and her sinking heart began to beat a bit faster. Still feeling notably shaken, however, she made her way over to him; a bewildered Jack followed closely behind.

She took a seat next to him, sitting cross-legged, and Jack took a place on the other side of the Time Lord. The Doctor didn't register their presence; he was looking out at the grey landscape of the Powell Estate. It wasn't until she tapped one of his broad shoulders and said his name twice — "Doctor?" — that he shook his head, apparently awakening from a daydream, and turned towards her. A small, wry smile ghosted across his lips.

"Oi, oi," he said by way of greeting, then noticed Jack sitting next to him. He nodded his head. "Captain."

Rose lifted one hand to play with a lock of her hair. "Why're we here, Doctor?" she asked quietly. She coughed. "You haven't … "

"Oh, no," the Doctor cut in, understanding. "No, we're in your past. The year is 1994 and I believe wee Rose Tyler's 'round about six or seven years old."

Jack came to terms with the situation before Rose did. "You shouldn't be tampering with the timelines," he advised. "Shouldn't be interacting with your past self at all. Causes a nasty paradox, and then the entire universe'll just — " He mimicked the sound of an explosion.

"Already knew that, thanks. Already had a little incident like that," Rose replied, then turned to the Doctor. "But why're we here, Doctor?"

The Time Lord lifted one hand, waved it in the air. "No reason," he said offhandedly, but Rose gave him such a stern look he elaborated: "Jus' wanted to see a little version of you. I missed by a little; it's nighttime, but I can wait till morning. You and the Captain get back to bed. Don't need much sleep, me."

"Won't people notice the TARDIS up here?" Jack asked. "If you stay till morning?"

"Nah, they won't. They never do." The Doctor sounded so sure of himself, his tone came across as sounding nearly bored. He looked upward, in the direction of the night sky.

Rose looked, too. The sky was bruised black; the moon an afterthought in the centre of it.

At last, she stood up. "Right then, we will just go back to bed … come in soon, yeah?" Jack stood too. It was almost amusing to Rose, how awkward and uncomfortable he seemed in the midst of this situation. She took a few steps toward the TARDIS, but suddenly turned. "Why'd you come out here, anyway?" Rose hadn't been expecting an answer, so she was surprised when she did get one.

"It was burning," the Doctor said softly. " I woke up."

A sudden gust of wind blew across the council estate grounds; it disturbed a chocolate bar wrapper that had been disposed of here on the roof. Rose shivered and crossed her arms over her chest against the chill as she nodded understandingly. She knew full well what the Doctor meant, and she offered a small and meaningless, "Oh" before returning to the TARDIS. Jack came in with her, and closed the door.

It was just Jack and Rose and the silence.

Rose shivered again, though it wasn't at all cold in the console room, and turned to face Jack. "Er. That's what I meant, Jack, when I said … "

"Brooding?" Jack answered. He was quicker than he let on, this one. A helluva lot brighter than Mickey back home.

Rose only nodded. "Yeah … that's it. It happens a lot. You just gotta get used to it."

Because, if anyone wanted a life aboard the TARDIS with the Doctor, growing accustomed to him was definitely one of the top requirements. Because their host was weaker than he let on. He hid behind a façade of sarcasm and manic grins, but there were chinks in his armour, and you just had to adjust.

It looked as if Jack had already passed the most complicated and confusing test of whether or not he was ready.

He'd do well, then.


	8. Aftermath

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**Tales from a Wooden Time Machine**

oOo

Author's Note: This story is inspired, in its loosest concept, by **perfectlyrose**'s oneshot story _Aftermath_, and shares its title. Aside from this, my oneshot is fully original. Also, I'm quietly ignoring the fact that this relationship goes deeper than anything in the show, and the chapter includes vague sexual references.  
>And yes, this is another short one … I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.<p>

* * *

><p>Word Count: 3,068<p>

Story Eight | Aftermath

Summary: Post _The Age of Steel_. Mickey's been left behind in the parallel universe. These are the results. Strong [Ten/Rose].

oOo

Rose waited no more than one minute after closing the doors to the TARDIS behind her and wandering up to join the Doctor at the centre console, permanently shutting Mickey into the parallel universe with no return, before she turned on her heel and raced back down the ramp.

She pressed her palm against the little glass windows above the doors, a lingering good-bye. She didn't beat her fists against the wood or anything of that nature; she knew that Mickey was gone and he didn't want to come back, and besides, the Doctor had already pulled the first lever and they departed from this universe for good. There was no coming back here; Rose knew that.

The Doctor punched some coordinates in, and the sentient old ship shook slightly as the walls between the worlds closed. He reached out one arm and he pulled another lever, but without his usual enthusiasm. Rose, for her part, was glad of it: she wasn't really sure she could take his energetic personality right now. What she needed was some alone time. As the Time Lord pressed down on a button, he pushed away from the console and dropped backwards into the worn jump seat, long legs swinging upwards to rest on the control panel. He lifted one hand and ran his hands through his scruffy brown hair.

The blonde now turned and leaned against the door, exhausted. When she'd decided to start travelling with the Doctor, it had been to overcome her feelings of utter ennui, and there had been a lot of things that came up in her new life she'd not anticipated. She hadn't expected the Doctor to be the man he was, nor had she expected to see half the things she saw. She hadn't expected the Doctor to absorb the time vortex and then burst into flame and completely change bodies, transform into this toothpick of a bloke. Rose hadn't expected to be at her father's side when he died.

She'd been under the impression for a while now that nothing more could catch her off her guard, that nothing more could surprise her. There were things she was braced for, like being trapped on some other planet with the Doctor but without the TARDIS; like witnessing terrible things and being unable to fix them; braced even for her own death. But this, Rose hadn't been expecting in the least. She hadn't been expecting Mickey to announce with surprising bluntness, "I'm staying." His words had been like a slap, but she'd gone and _let_ him stay behind without putting up that much of a fight.

She hadn't expected to lose her oldest friend.

The worst of it was that it was largely her fault.

Rose paused, ran her hands over her face wearily, then crossed the room and started down the steps. "'M gonna go get some rest," she announced softly. "'S been a long day, hasn't it?"

The Doctor nodded wordlessly — his silence was a rarity, for especially in this new body he had a gob to be reckoned with — and the blonde continued on down the corridor to her bedroom. She plopped face-down onto her bed, and she heaved several loud sighs before the tears came.

Her sobs were a combinations of childlike wails and loud hiccoughs, and her pillow got ever damper as she wept. Her fingers gripped the sheets tightly as if in support. It went on like this for a good ten or so minutes, Rose releasing all her grief into this one pillow and mourning the loss of her oldest childhood friend and boyfriend. Mickey had been all of four years older than her, and she'd known him her entire life. Admittedly, they'd only started dating because their relationship had been formed from pure convenience, but that didn't mean they hadn't cared for each other.

After ten minutes passed and Rose had cried until her eyes were void of tears, she sat up, trying to overcome her feelings of devastation. She hiccoughed again, and wiped at the tears. She caught her reflection in the mirror and was surprised to see in what a sorry state she looked. Her blonde hair was a mess, and the mascara and tears had painted two messy streaks down her face. Rose lifted a hand, swiping at the marks, then lay back down. She curled up on the bed in foetal position, and fell asleep.

oOo

A soft knocking at the door woke her up. Blinking, she sat up. For a moment she was confused, and then she remembered the events in that parallel London. The hard truth landed on her like an anvil. Crushing her.

The soft knocking came again. Rose lifted her head and called out softly. "Come in."

It was the Doctor, of course, and not Mickey, who opened the door and stepped into her room. Still dressed in the tuxedo he'd put on to sneak into her parallel mother's party, he now looked even scruffier than usual, which was saying something: his hair was a real mess and his glasses sat askew on his nose — not that he needed them, Rose knew his eyesight was perfect, but did he ever look _sexy _with them on — the bow tie was loosely knotted round his neck, his jacket wasn't buttoned correctly, and the laces of his left shoe were untied. In short, he looked like he'd been dragged through a bush.

Despite herself, Rose raised an eyebrow. "What happened to you?"

He didn't answer her question. Instead, he joined her on the bed, and Rose's gaze wandered to her feet. She suddenly realised that she herself was still wearing the waitress costume, the dark fabric stiff against her skin. She found herself focusing on the scratchy material and was only startled back into reality with another feeling against her body, and this feeling made the spot of naked skin tingle. It was the Doctor gently squeezing her arm. She lifted her eyes to meet his and he said to her gently, "You were asleep for hours. To be precise, six hours and thirty-four minutes. You alright?"

Rose considered doing what the Doctor did best: smile and brush it off, build a perfect shield. But pretending nothing was wrong was so exhausting. So she leaned against his skinny frame, enjoying the feeling of his arms wrapping around her and holding her close. "He was my best friend," she said simply. Her voice was still thick from crying.

"He was your boyfriend," the Doctor replied gently, but Rose shook her head. Neither of them had said it, but it had been obvious. Mickey had stopped being her boyfriend as soon as the Doctor had come into the picture. As soon as he and his enigmatic blue box had showed up and whisked her away. Now, the blonde uttered the words quietly.

"Me and him … stopped being boyfriend and girlfriend a while back, I think. When you came, really." As she said this last sentence, the Doctor pulled away. Just slightly. Pretending not to notice, Rose continued. "But — he was still my oldest friend, you know? So, I dunno. I guess — well, I knew him my whole life, he'd been living in the flat next to me since forever. Was my best friend growing up, and then we started dating when I turned eighteen." She sucked in several deep, shuddering breaths and repeated her previous words. "He was my _best friend_. And now 'm never gonna see him again." Again, Rose hiccoughed on the last sentence.

The Doctor's hands were massaging her back now, rubbing the back of her neck. "At least he's doing good in that new world of his. Picking up the pieces."

This drew a wry chuckle from her. "Yeah. At least." She shifted aside, out of reach of his arms and flopped backwards onto the mattress, whose springs groaned in complaint. Rose heaved another sigh as she reached for the pillow and covered her face with it. A long pause, and then the springs creaked again as the Doctor flopped down next to her. He lifted the pillow away from her face, fingers brushing locks of her dyed blonde hair from her face. She smiled briefly, then noted, "That tux. It really does suit you — no pun intended."

"Does it?" He fumbled with the bow tie, removing it. "I'm not all that fond of it, actually. Brought us nothing but bad luck, and besides, I can't breathe in bow ties."

Rose was suddenly aware that she'd snuggled into his side — when had that happened? Well, she didn't want to pull away now. She found herself pressing closer against him, and he was doing the same. "I like it," she murmured. This was much easier than hiding the grief away, she thought. It was best simply to get through mourning and leave it at that.

They spent the next while in a stretched-out silence, both knowing the other was thinking about Mickey. The quiet was filled only with the steady beating of three hearts.

Suddenly, Rose sat up, leaning over the Doctor. He didn't stir; but his big brown eyes followed her calmly, a strange expression in them. Rose bit her lip, trying to identify the look, but she couldn't. Instead, she cocked her head to one side and asked, "So, what were you up to while I was sleeping?"

Just like that, the look disappeared from his eyes, and they were full of their usual brightness. "Oh, the usual, you know. Saving Third World countries on your planet, splitting some atoms, reading of all Shakespeare's plays and sonnets in one sitting."

A laugh bubbled up inside of Rose despite the day's dreary events. "The thing is, with you, I can't tell if you're being serious or not."

He laughed, too. "I can't do all that in such a short amount of time. Well, I can at least do all the reading in that amount of time — well, actually it takes me ten — well, I wasn't reading Shakespeare anyway. It was _The Secret Agent_. The Joseph Conrad one … not the rubbish action book written in 2083."

Another giggle escaped Rose. She was now beginning to doubt her previous reflections: maybe it _was_ better, easier to brush the hurt and the guilt away, sweep it under the rug, bury it under a pile of laughter and teasing and forget about it for long lengths of time. To travel, to be utterly mad, to _run_, and pretend the hurt hadn't happened. God knew it was what the Doctor did, and he did it well.

She could practically copy his example and cope with the pain of losing Mickey.

Or would it only seem like she was coping? Because another thing she knew from watching the Doctor was that sometimes, the hurt came out of nowhere and knocked the bloody wind out of you. It knocked you off your goddamn feet.

"Rose," she heard him sing-song gently, and she blinked, looking back over to him. She discovered that she'd pulled away from him and migrated to the other side of the bed. "You're brooding," he accused lightly.

"You're one to talk," she replied with a snort. When he didn't say anything, Rose shook her head and leaned over him again, then said lightly, her blonde hair framing her face like a halo, "'M fine, really. Just thinking."

His brown, doe-like eyes followed her momentarily, and this time she thought she could identify the look from before; the funny expression with which he'd been regarding her. It was some kind of combination of wonder, entrancement, fascination. Adoration. Those chocolate brown eyes wandered up and down her body, quietly exploring her every bit.

And the most alarming thing was that Rose discovered her eyes were fixed _his_ body the exact same way; wandering up and down his skinny frame and the bit of chest exposed from his unbuttoned tuxedo. She was overcome, suddenly, with an urge to —

No, she didn't want that, she didn't want that at all; the Doctor was just her friend and nothing more. And for crying out loud, she'd only just lost Mickey. Why she was she thinking these things? An awkward giggle escaped her, and she started to pull away from him.

"I think … " Rose whispered, "I should go home." The breath in her words caught in the air between them, hovered there in tiny bubbles.

Her words made the Doctor frown, and hastily, she clarified, "I don't mean forever — I just mean for a day or two, yeah? Clear my head, spend some time 'round Mum. I owe her, y'know; I hardly ever see her anymore … I ought to visit, really I should … " She trailed off, and pressed her lips together, nodding slowly in agreement to her own words. Again, she flopped back down on her bed, blonde hair fanning out behind her. She glanced at the Doctor. He only gave an understanding nod. Rose paused, then added, "But not just yet, maybe in an hour or two."

She pressed into his side again, and once again his arms wrapped around her. This whole day, Rose thought, was going in circles. She snuggled closer to him still, closing her eyes burrowing her head in his chest and listening to the rapid four-beat rhythm of his twin hearts. Was it just her, or were they pulsating a little quicker than usual?

oOo

Quite a while later, they pulled apart, the taste of the thought of her still fresh in the Doctor's mind. She sat up first, and drew her knees to her chest, hugged them close to her. He sat up also, half-dazed. He raised a hand to run it through his brown hair, messy from lying down for so long. "We can take you home now … if you want," he offered softly, but Rose shook her head.

"In a bit yet," she mumbled, blinking too. Her eyes, the exact golden-brown colour of whiskey, skirted the room — and fell on the collection of framed photographs which she'd so carefully arranged on the vanity, and her face crumpled.

She kept on staring, with the same hurt expression of her pretty face. The Doctor eventually leaned forwards to look, too. There were a fair few pictures placed there, five or six, but he could have guessed which one pained her at present.

There was a photograph of Rose with her arm around her mother at a New Year's party, and the two women had their heads tipped back, laughter shining in their eyes. Rose wore a cheap plastic crown on her head, on which swirling letters proclaimed, "Happy 2004!" A grainy, 1980's wallet-sized snapshot of her father had been placed in the corner of the frame.

And then there was the photo he'd been suspecting, the one of her and Mickey at a Christmas party, both wearing paper crowns from Christmas crackers; Rose placing a kiss on her boyfriend's cheek. Mickey, whom she'd never see again. It was this photo, of course, that her whiskey gaze was fixed on, At the moment, the Doctor was having trouble tearing his eyes from the picture himself.

_Ah, good old Ricky the Idiot_.

_Good on you, mate_.

It was Rose's barely whispered declaration that really caught the Time Lord's attention, however: "They just keep on disappearin', don't they." It was spoken not as a question, but a statement, and the frankness of it was enough to make the Doctor's hearts stop for a moment.

After all, also on the vanity were a couple of pictures of Rose and Jack — dancing in the TARDIS console room, their arms slung around each other's shoulders in 13th century Japan. That trip had been their last, the Doctor recalled, before the Daleks, before everything had gone downhill.

And the only time Rose and Jack had managed to bully him into getting his picture taken. Jack had snapped that photo, after some struggling with the primitive technology of a 21st century digital camera. It was rather jarring to see his old self in a photograph, back when he'd been all ears and leather jackets.

_They just keep on disappearin'._

The Doctor reached out to squeeze her hand, and she glanced sidelong at him, a sad smile blessing her full lips. "How's to some tea, then?" the Doctor offered.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, my God, you're like my _mum_. She thinks a cuppa's the solution to everything!"

"Oi," he protested, mostly at the prospect of being compared to Jackie Tyler. Perfectly lovely person, he confessed Jackie was, but not at all like him. Then he added, "But ... isn't it? Isn't tea the solution to everything?"

She giggled, though it sounded a bit forced. Not that he any right to judge her for it, given all the forced laughs he'd given in the past hundred years or so. Forced chuckles and laughs and smiles, the grief hidden behind a well-constructed guise of energy and sarcasm. "Never mind, you're right; I suppose it is," Rose said. "But — I think it'll have my cuppa at home. Like I said, I jus' need a day or two."

The Doctor nodded. "Right. Let's go, then. Might wanna change first, though."

Ten minutes later, the pair met back up in the console room, the Doctor back in his favoured pinstripe suit, tie, and Converses; Rose in jeans and a fuchsia hoodie. At the moment, the TARDIS was hovering in the cosmic emptiness of the vortex, its default location. The Doctor punched in specific coordinates for her flat in the Powell Estate, and with the pull of a lever, they were off, the time rotor grinding out a screechy orchestra of the universe whizzing by them.

A dull thud resonated through the ship as they landed, and Rose glanced towards the double doors.

She said nothing as she made her way down the ramp and opened the doors, where she took one step out of the TARDIS and collapsed, in tears again, into her bewildered mother's arms. The Doctor hovered in the doorway, and over her tearful daughter's shoulder, Jackie Tyler flashed the Time Lord a questioning look.

The Doctor said nothing; he turned and entered the TARDIS again, shutting the double doors behind him, so that it was just the traveller in the lonely blue-green lighting of his great ship's main room. He leaned wearily against the railing encircling the room, his neck rolling backwards.

"You're right, Rose," he said to the emptiness. "They _all just keep disappearing_. That's space-and-time travel for you. Brilliant. Brilliantly lonely."

Perhaps rather appropriately, he didn't receive an answer.


End file.
